I am no more than a tourist
unsure of his way among ancient stones
scrutinised by crows
anticipating one false step
and the worm
whose promise is golden
I may see the glories
yet my thoughts are less than weathered tombs
their words mocking me
for my impermanence
being but faded lichen
bleached by a million dawns.
Simple
my stories run
from gay to grave
the phrase in fun
a word unsaved
each note they play
can smile and cry
but hope to say
no hidden lies
for though far from virtue
I trust they are sincere
these humble little verses
that on the page appear.
Sahara
the words do not fly
rather they are cawing crows
cruel and unkempt
tormenting me
from a sky
I’m told is scarred
with distant desert sands
so arid and suffocating
that my ink is run dry.
Bracken
the bracken rustles
underneath an April storm
a field mouse shelters
Ceasefire
ripe are the dark skies
violet with April clouds
promising new rain
may the deluge seed new life
upon this blooded country
for it has seen only death
when the heavens last opened
Window
the distant window
casting a silver sunlight,
monochrome shadows
caress the leaves of a book
a new chapter is revealed
Sand
the dunes call to me
a poetry of seashells
written by the waves
Mountains
now the mountains sleep
they have witnessed far too much
of mankind’s ascent
why must they watch his downfall
let the valleys run with blood
the nature of things
a dandelion torn
crushed beneath uncaring feet
and the world still turns
The End Of Days
in my garden
the world remains
as it was then still
starlings sing
of spring’s refrains
to some god’s once will,
in my garden
flowers bloom
of hopeful colours bright
and knows not night
of coming gloom
which is our given plight,
in my garden
a dusk still shines
despite the earth is done
for bees will try
with butterflies
to bless the very sun.
so even
in these darkest hours
hope is life’s one care
thus in my garden
grows the light
of each spring’s blessed prayer.
the blighters rock 