Here in this verdant pasture
deep rooted and age gnarled
yet somehow quite delicate
grey-brown and lichen cladYour branches have sheltered
so many playful innocent lambs
in their daffodils of spring
they have grown in your shadeAnd now in this your season
burst forth a cloud upon the land
a brilliant explosion of blossom
ten million butterflies of pink
Every morning ordinarily
I pull on a delicate robe
of finespun featherweight silk
and then go out in to the world
A hand-made outer garment
my facade of some normality
I work hard to keep opacity
but sometimes the light seeps through
Abandoned by modern aspirations
replaced by concrete and steel
warped and shrinking timbers
an amber chaff of peeling paintStill in place where it was discarded
vine-wrapped and faded away
empty window eyes and doorway mouth
cracked brick of a chimney askewOnce the vibrant happy homestead
the laughter of children now ghosts
green moss in contrast in a sea of grey
a cold and unsettling inertia
Twinkle on the harbour, stars…
a token in light for me to keep
burn brighter on this my final night
and stay here for me
until I return
You were so vivid on Saturday
I was listening to your song
the one about the space man
so strange and full of wonder
I’d been waiting for you for days
to hear what you had to tell me
this time could be the last
I hoped like crazy that it wasn’t
You sounded lively and electric
new things and places to explore
a jewelled skull on a faraway world
clear signal to the initiate one
Then you were gone on Sunday
I was listening to your song
the one which became a farewell
so quiet and yet full of wonder
I want nothing more than to grip your hand
and stare across the harbour at the other side
as the sun goes down beneath the inky hills
the hustle and bustle behind us finally
I want nothing more than to sit with you
while you work intently by electric lights
as the night envelops us in this little room
our private island of calm and concentration
I want nothing more than to hold you close
and shield you from the midnight terrors
as the witching hour approaches and then flies
a warm and impregnable fortress of blankets
Selfish, I know…
A romantic heart is my affliction
the poets blood within my veins
pumps a little faster when I see you
it quickens and fills me with warmth
And I fall deep
Often this has been my misfortune
to have the heart so willing in my chest
thumping out the sweet infatuation
my face reddened and my hands weak
And I fall deep
For when I am enamoured and besotted
often other hearts beat counter-wise
and what may seem to be a common rhythm
was simply an error in the reading
And I fall
Sometimes I will fulfil the brief
and tread the paths of diplomats
with hand wringing and feathered speech
niceties and pointless process
In certain moods I cannot see
the point in playing teacher’s pet
when all the phoney talk has flown
rest quite assured I won’t bow down
Mister Swan your countenance
is well known to this author but
each time I go to write about it
your blue eyes disappear
Mister Swan your exploits are
the stuff of dreams that I have dreamt but
each time I set my pen to paper
the ink won’t seem to flow
The night is cold the dark draws in
and sets the plants to crystal dew
which slips beneath each footfall
leaving trails in our chaotic wake
eerie light will mark them silvery
as the harvest moon glows above
a disc of buttery luminescence
the only witness to nocturnal flights
LVX CREARE 