he awoke to the soft embrace
of a warm breeze on his face
and lay there a while, motionless
lest he should the moment curse
his eyes still closed he held the scene
oft designed inside his dreams
green valleys of a summer’s end
through its pathways he would wend
to her door of promised rest
where his head lay upon her breast
there she would gently touch his face
in this endless dream’s embrace.
rhyme
My Cat
cat, it’s said, may look at a king
and even ponder the magpie’s wing
in his walk he’ll stalk the crow
his tail held high, his head held low
all things that move and fly and stir
he’ll thread into his fabled purrs
that he relates his tales upon
when the tiger’s soul he dons
but looking at both bird and king
is likely this cat’s everything.
Heaven’s Song
Indifferent and indistinct
the song thrush ayrs to prayers aspire
its voice hid long beyond the trees
a no man’s land of brush and briar
where the gods’ small treasures dwell
apart from he who would be lord
and here their simple lives do tell
among the boughs now green and broad.
Thus apart sit I and strain to hear
the throstle’s hymnal to the skies
and as a kiss upon my ear
her song from heaven seems to fly.
The Standard
the grave was cracked, and held no name
that in truth I could ascertain
no great deeds were here inscribed
nor loved ones that had him survived,
yet to my mind, it mattered not
if men had this soul forgotten
for in eternal vigil there
a wild rose did its petals bare
blood red in the breeze was blown
as standard to this ancient stone
Dawn in June
how should words impart the dawn?
that release from night’s surreal kiss
which though blesses us with its domain
cannot compare with morning’s bliss
tinting shadows with its gold
and gentle touch that stirs the soul
into this vibrant gallery
of sight and sounds and fragrance whole
A Simple Memory
calor gas and paraffin
rusting ancient biscuit tins
browning Sutton’s catalogues
pesticide sprayed in fogs
that swirled around my hanging feet
perched atop my makeshift seat
salvaged from an Austin seven
speaks not to me of fabled heaven
but paradise on earth instead
as memory of my grand-dad’s shed
for in this dream is filled with joy
this man remembers as a boy.
Pica
the lonesome magpie is I feel
the bird which mostly does reveal
more about myself it seems
oft appearing in my dreams
though not in sorrow like the rhyme
but he’s a joyous friend of mine
so I salute when he appears
not from the superstitious fears
which man in ancient times held fast
from ill omen-ed shadows he had cast
but out of my own happiness
that too my waking hours he blessed.
Hidden Charm
under the bed
away from harm
is where m’lady
keeps her charm
and holds it safe
until the day
she needs her charming
winsome ways
to charm the birds
down from the trees
and bring all suitors
to their knees
but just for now
it’s hid instead
in the dark
under her bed
Passing Seasons
from my spring do I retain
memories that build refrains
within the dreams of autumn years
and thus bring succour to the fears
expectant for the wintertime
that weigh now heavy on my mind
so the skies of bright May hold
a light to dark December’s cold.
Irish Daisies
a thousand suns
are dandelions
setting as full moons
that will as one
to winds succumb
and with the air commune
but until then
their golden brows
will bring my soul such cheer
and for these days
I’ll alway praise
their dawning every year