In early December
I heard
The dawn bird
And did remember
Another year
Will soon end.
My friends
Are growing older.
I hear
Pretty young women
Ask me
About family matters.
There will be
No more sinning.
Merely hot tea
And matters
Of domesticity
For me.
I haven’t heard
The night bird
For some time.
Yet his cry
Survives in rhyme
And will outlast
The final blast
That ends
My mind.
A sweet caress.
A girl’s undress.
But a ring?
To be tied
By tight string?
I have tried
That thing
And felt
The scorpion’s
Sharp sting.
So broke
The rope
That ties
And ended
All lies.
We take delight
In friendship
And love.
Then comes the night.
Last night I went
For a walk
Through fallen leaves
And thought
How their sweet scent
Will soon
Be spent.
I start
To write
As morning’s light
Begins to show.
The dark
Must follow
Morning’s glow.
Only the hollow
Do not know
That tis so.
As I walked home one dark Halloween
I met a young lady in green.
Her name it was Grace
And back at her place
Sat the devil eating strawberries and cream!
I am delighted to announce that 10 of my poems have been included in Croydon Poetry Hour Anthology 2020/21. Amongst those of my poems appearing in the book are Blackbird, Leaving and Whilst Drunk on Very Strong Beer. For anyone who is interested, Croydon Poetry Hour Anthology 2020/21 can be purchased here https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/croydon-poets/croydon-poetry-hour-anthology-202021/paperback/product-q777n8.html?page=1&pageSize=4
I have reproduced below my poem Leaving. The text of the poem is followed by a Youtube video of me reading it.
Leaving
On my way home
I touched the stone
Of my local church.
And longed to stay
With the singing birds
On this summer evening.
I have oft heard
The birds singing
And regretted leaving.
I envy them
For, unlike men
They do not weep.
For they see not
The final sleep.
While I
Knowing that man must die
Have the beauty of birdsong,
Which does not last long.
Some civilisations go slow
In their decay
While others stay
But a short time.
Birdsong does not last.
And poets must rhyme
Of empires that pass
And fast climate change.
I have seen
In a dream
A hidden door.
Through which all pass
And are seen
By man no more.
K Morris - Poet 