Foresters have left woodchips
And great logs to lie
By the woodland path.
Sometimes I pause and sit,
But often pass by.
And on this spring day
I see the inevitability
That all things must decay.
Yet I have sunshine
And young women and wine.
And this fleeting time.
(Doubtless this poem was influenced by Ernest Dowson)
The tinkle of windchimes
And birdsong heard in my mum’s garden
Brought into my mind
Life’s great beauty, and thoughts of mortality.
On 27 February, I wrote about my admission to Walton Neuro Centre in Liverpool where I Underwent treatment for a brain abscess (https://kmorrispoet.com/2025/02/27/an-explanation-from-kevin-morris/).
I am delighted to report that I was discharged from Walton Neuro Centre and I’m now writing this in my mum’s back garden as birds sing and wind chimes tinkle.
I am grateful beyond words to the staff in Walton Neuro Centre for their excellent care.
Some of the poems I composed whilst in hospital will find their way into a future poetry collection, or perhaps into a book dedicated to my experiences of dealing with my brain abscess.
You can find out about the Walton Centre here Home | The Walton Centre Website.
I once knew a poetical young nurse
Who was fond of composing fine verse.
She wrote one on Paul
Who said, as I recall,
“Why are you writing on me nurse!”
So many birds sing
In early spring
As I pass by
These numerous tombstones
Where the dead lie.
You also passed
So do not know
That birds sing
In this early spring
Over old stones.
A boy who attended my old school
Once claimed to have seen a ghoul!
That place wasn’t Eton
So he wasn’t beaten.
But the headmaster called him a fool!
The scent of spring grass
Enters through the window
As I lie in my hospital bed.
This day will surely pass
And I will go
Where the mower turns grass to hay.
I relish this spring day
And will walk in sun
As the mower goes to and thro
Until my rhyme is done.
When a young lady known as Lee
Went and threw a sprout at me,
I said, “you are so pretty
And I’ve heard you are witty.
But why are you wasting your tea!”
I wish the fountain’s hypnotic rhythm
Would never cease
for I am, momentarily, at peace
Listening to the splash
Of water flowing fast.
I have striven
For pleasure, and filled my leisure
With pretty flowers
Picked by many men
For a few brief hours
And then by me.
But pleasure lies in poetry
And the gentle sound
Of the fountain as she speaks to me
Is far more profound
Than wasted hours, spent amidst these painted flowers
Of whose scent
I often repent.
There was a young man named Lee
Who kept a very large pet bee.
When they said “does it sting?”,
He said, “only in the spring!”,
As he tenderly rubbed his right knee!
K Morris - Poet 