The rain stops and starts.
Lovers who never where lovers part.
No hearts are broken.
But had words been spoken
At an earlier time
Perchance this rhyme of mine
Would not end in friends parting
And rain stopping and starting.
On a spring day
Girls in short dresses
Progress by.
Old men sigh
Finding their mind
Turn to past progress
And the truth
That youth
Is fleeting as flowers.
I saw daisies in spring grass
And thought of the past
When I first made my chains
Unaware of coming care.
Our acts forge a chain
For good or bad.
When I was a lad
I took daisies freely
Innocent of what would come to be.
I have picked so many spring flowers.
And I have learned
That youthful hours
Can never return
And the chain I made
May grow heavier with age.
In our youth
We search for fairies.
Then when we reach maturity
We see the truth.
There are no fairies
Or white knights
To ride to our rescue.
There is love and lust
And the Reaper
Who sweeps.
The rain had come and gone.
Yet still raindrops fell
From branches laden down with rain.
Then, the mower came
To cut grass as I passed
Along the churchyard path
Where the old trees grow
And the dead sleep below.
Neither these trees nor the dead
Will know that I passed
Along this well worn churchyard path
As the mower cut grass
Heedless of rain.
As I drink my hot curry soup
Melancholy love songs loop.
The same thoughts go round and round
Of waitresses who have come and gone.
Sometimes my thoughts are profound.
At other times I tempt with rhymes
A waitress who likes poetry.
But I have found
My verse can not undress a waitress
For my brief rhyme
Is out of time
And I am growing old.
So I drink my hot curry soup
As the music loops around.
And then go home alone.
Last night the wind blew.
Today I remember you
In your heels and skirt
You wore for me.
There was no need for me to flirt
As I knew you would be with me
For an hour or so
And then you would go.
The wind is passionate and free.
You wore those clothes for me
Because you knew that I like heels and skirts.
But there was no need to flirt with you.
You flew to Turkey.
We can both agree
That there was some delight,
And a flight to Turkey
For you.
“A Century of Nature Stories”, left on a ledge
In a bare room.
Did perfume
Once linger here?
A spinster lived and died
In this place
We made our home
For a little while.
“A Century of Nature Stories”,
What did that mean to you?
An old tome
Left in your former home?
I recall horses on the wall
Of my bedroom.
I think you would have approved
But I will never know
For you died long ago.
I regret we never met.
The memory of that book has stuck with me
And I would like to ask you
What it meant to you.
You came from a different age.
I imagine you would have engaged
With books
And the garden with the Crab Apple Tree.
What would you have thought of this age
Obsessed with technology, where quiet
Is so often replaced by formless riot, of people
Who have lost
What they can not regain,
And I can not explain.
You where anchored in your home and time.
I have a rhyme
Of a lady I never knew
And thoughts of what may be true.
Or at least half true.
She ends each text with an x,
While he, with a world weary smile
Does the same.
It’s the oldest game
Around they say.
Some Feminists may frown
But the men still pay.
The women pay to,
But in a different way.
Some girls play a part
And retain their heart.
But each party pays,
And all loves and lusts
Are but endless dust.
Birds on a March evening.
Such beauty and grieving
For we all must sleep,.
Sometimes I almost weep
For birds in the evening
Will sing on
When I am gone.
Yet this night
I shall take delight
In evening birds.
For the graveyard plot
Has no song.
K Morris - Poet 