Hope

we dream of endless hopes
for intertwined are they
distant cousins in our psyche
to reunite one brighter day
and in such reveries we see
what visions of a future cast
that speak to that we long to be
divorced from any darker pasts,
yet such dreams are but whispers
lost upon four unseen winds
thus how may we have claimed to lost
those hopes our longing never finds.

Needs

once blessed was he of simple needs
yet time’s cold kiss did burden him
no more the fruit of golden trees
could counter the hungers held within
long gone the days the child did play
without a thought of dawns to come
the innocence of yesterday
in fleeting moments was it gone
as Adam cast from paradise
now is he cursed by passion’s seed
that no more his wants suffice
and nor the world can sate his greed.

Recompense

among a thousand ravens wings
death walked the field
his cloak soaked blood from the soil
upon which souls did yield
their lives to axe and spear and sword
and hatred without sense
but this dark figure judged them not
he sought just recompense

Truths Lost

what sweet seasons these were in my youth
that sparked all promised dawns under the sun
and held no cynicism above the truths
which spring denies until the winter comes
for all the cold days held in my marked years
have withered absolutes as does the frost
in killing roses with the dew’s first tears
until the blooms of our beliefs are lost.

Seeds

thoughts are as sycamore seeds
dancing on the autumn breeze
keeping time as new October
play waltzes through the trees
ten thousand flashes all at once
spinning round and round
and from them grow my fantasies
when they’ve all gone to ground.

littered are these tiny prayers
across the broken earth
and from these kernels fallen
spring dreams of a rebirth.

Beagle Sleeping

watching him in sleep
running for hares unseen
he speaks in starts and fits
yet wakes not from the dream
there he is the hound
of fable and of art
the harrier, the carrier
of the hunter’s heart
then from the chase he wakes,
and in yawning to the dawn
in some distant reverie
is heard the call to horn.

The Past (unfinished)

it is the land that neighbours ours
and in its landscapes we once played
yet with every passing hour
its borders slip further away.

Untitled

garland me in clouds
of the purest temple white
that in heavens crowds
I’d drink
ambrosia with my gods tonight
Olympus would I seek
abroad its scented ways
with the ancient ones to speak
endless through halcyon days
so clad me in the purest skies
invest me not of basest clay
for with eternals would I fly
and all the fears of man allay

Water

her eyes are my riverside
verdant banks in late July
as the stream first finds its way
from the mountains to the valley
her skin is the evening tide
that flows and ebbs against my shore
to calm the rocks of their concern
and peaceful water’s night ensures

I write more lines

I write more lines above the clouds
my muse she seems to favour wings
upon horizons high she proudly
flies to me and poems sings.