That muddy hill seemed long
as my bike hurtled along.
We were playing at cavaliers.
I was way out at the front
shifting my gears,
yelling a homespun song.
The bike was my horse
(imagined of course),
it was half a mile
to the gates,
slammed shut in my track,
level crossings were always my curse.
A steam train was coming fast.
The centuries mixed
as my wheels spun around.
I skidded and fell on my arse,
straight into the ancient past.
I haven’t got back
Cromwell won’t give me a pass!
history
What is a Clock?
What is a clock?
A finger pointing out the time
That’s the simple answer
Counting seconds, minutes, hours
Passing slower, passing faster
A lazy, hungry creature
Time’s elastic
Drags us on
Pulls us to the future
Strips out history away
Measures out our meter
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
It knows nothing of the moment
Or the truth of time
It will never be my master
My clock is in my heartbeat
But what if there’s no time at all
And it’s a false illusion?
What if it repeats itself
And each beat is completer?
Or everything is overlapped?
Did we meet across some bridge,
Every meeting sweeter?
And will we pass that way again?
I’m here and there and everywhere
Without time there’s no disaster
Time is not my master
Migrations
so much is shared through migrations
like birds dropping seeds in the garden
some will flourish, some wont
flowers, fruits and weeds
looking back on history
and the incessant weave of the world
i see patterns intertwined, growing
interchange of arts and design
leaves that bud from one tree
the branching of language and speech
a map of where we’ve all been
it says nothing of where we are going
in this we know less than the birds
Beyond the Loss
from high above looking down on the land
there are signs of all that is gone
churches sit on old sacred sites
scattered across the earth
the motorway swallowed the village pond
the sea eats away at the shore
the old forests all gone to ships
gone to ashes and war
i see the ramparts of Rome
Legions lost in the earth
Saxon barrows and Norman walls
Celtic graves, the breaking of stones,
gone, in a battle for power
all for nothing
the land and the word lives on
the rhyme, the history, the song
deeper than dust
deeper than bone
finer, truer, strong
What we will do for love ….
Asked to write a love poem and finally lost for words!
This love? that love? how many have there been?
and who of them was first? probably fair Psyche,
she who burned Eros’ wings, in the dark unseen
and put his feet to flight. There’s a lesson there.
It’s hardly likely, after that, I’d fall in love so quickly ,
but I did, with Guinevere, and she ran off with Lancelot!
ah how women do deceive! it made me feel quite sick!
After that I sat about and thought.
It all seemed like a shot in the dark.
Wendy was too soppy. Maid Marion seemed brave and kind
but she was always off with Robin shooting arrows in the wood.
I wanted one who was strong and good, the sort I couldn’t find,
one who liked what I did instead of what they thought I should.
Some one who understood! I was young and stupid.
So much for Cupid! Wild thoughts ran round my head.
A friend came by to see me, said “STOP READING BOOKS!”
”If you want to know what women are like drag one into bed”.
So I did. I chose one only for her looks. A big mistake.
It’s more than looks that make a girl. I soon found out.
I went back to the library and searched amongst the shelves.
I read history, not mythology. I was seeking hard, firm facts.
Not much mention of the woman I needed there.
Battling, defeated, Boudicca had some appeal,
Joan of Arc, a little mad, Cleopatra sounded bright.
All were doomed. Past age. All done and dusted, Dead.
And then I found the poets. Their voices burned the page.
Poems of love and loss and passion, sacrifice, desire
It set my heart afire. Visions of real love filled my throbbing head.
I saw that you must work at it, losing is better than never having.
Its torture, sad, tragic, maddening. It’s happiness, joy, and magic.
It’s worth fighting for and always trying. Real Love is never dead.
I sat in a noisy cafe, reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
glanced across the room. I saw her there composed.
She seemed complete.
She was reading Keats. I smiled.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art…”
Good start. Our glances became frequent.
I took up courage, walked across. “You like T.S. Eliot?’
”Oh yes! I love him! Dylan Thomas?”
I smile again, nodding, offering her coffee.
We smiled and talked and talked. I walked her home.
Spent all night writing poems on her doorstep.
Fortunately it was summer. I didn’t freeze to death.
My poems only purpose was to make her love me.
I wanted her to love me more than all the poets.
She inspired me. She desired me. She was the first –
my sonnet.
The Dreaming Path 