We met in the wood
Where the wild flowers bud
And the ageing poet rhymes
Of his long lost springtime.
Buds turn to flowers
On the woodland path.
Our hours are finite
And pass into night.
We met in the wood
Where the wild flowers bud
And the ageing poet rhymes
Of his long lost springtime.
Buds turn to flowers
On the woodland path.
Our hours are finite
And pass into night.
There was a young lady named Bell
Who built a place down in Hell.
A demon called Moore
Fitted her front door
And the devil he rang Bell’s bell!
As I write
Church bells tell
Of dust
And night.
This sunlit day
Must pass away
And I must write
Whilst there is light.
When I visited a discreet little Sauna
I was entertained by pretty Miss Lorna.
We enjoyed tea and cake
With a girl called Lake,
And a vicar who calls himself Warner …
I met a young lady named Steed
Who said, “I have a great need!”,
Dear reader, I must confess
She was wearing no dress
Which distracted my steed from his feed!
A rose
Tight closed.
All petals fall
But not all
Roses open
And unspoken
Lust is dust
In childhood we play
With fairies. But they
Do not stay
And we engage
On the world’s stage.
Then, in old age
We fancy
We see
A fairy
Ere we enter eternity.
My friend whose name is Miss Mar
Wrote a memoir just wearing her bra.
When I attended her book signing
All the men they where lining
Up to see her memoir and bra …
Sometimes, when I consider the state of the world, I am reminded of the Irish poet W. B. Yeats’s poem The Second Coming. I am no millenarian, however the poet’s Second Coming continues to resonate with me
A butterfly
On a
Sunny day
Flew by
My Labrador.
A snap of jaw.
And our summer chat
Of this and that.
All things must die
As the summer butterfly.
Death’s jaws will close
On man and rose.
You and I
Are but butterflies
Who love and laugh
And then must pass.