The weather grows colder
And I older.
The clock ticks on.
Each second gone
Forever lost to me.
I sit alone.
Mere flesh and bone.
Is there a possibility of immortality?
That may be.
But for now the clock mocks
All my philosophy.
I wonder, could ther
My first real girlfriend
Tore tart cards
In London phone boxes.
In the end
Those colourful art cards
Vanished, leaving steel and glass.
Now, when I pass
Those boxes in London streets
I imagine discreet meets
Organised online.
And after the laughter
And wine
Only steel and glass remain.
The flowers are finished in the hanging baskets
That beautified in summertime.
Now the autumn has come
And I hear knocks
From dead things in the rain and wind.
The clock on the wall
Makes a steady tick
As flowers continue to fall.
I like to write
But sometimes the rhymes won’t come.
In the morning sun
I have written of pretty flowers
Who know not hours
And clocks that tick the day away.
At times I write
Of midnight doors where young women knock
And pause for a while
(but never stop).
My verse makes readers smile
While others curse.
But I can not deny
That sometimes the rhymes
Just won’t come.
She drunk, showing me
Her nails I can not see.
I drink my brandy
And try my best to engage
With a girl half my age.
Its hard to explain
To her drunken brain
That I am unable to see.
So I sip my brandy
And imagine her fingernails
She left with her friend.
I can not pretend
That there was no attraction
At least on my part.
A passing distraction
Turns into art.
I have seen this same old log
Over many years
As I passed by with my dogs.
Years have flown.
I have walked alone
When my dogs have died.
Now I pass by
With another one.
Time moves forever on.
All logs decay.
I know one day
Dogs and I
Will not pass by.
But autumn leaves
Are beautiful to me.
A patch of sunlight on the hall floor.
I close the living room door
And the light is seen no more.
I know the night kills the light
And the ferryman waits to take
Me to the final gate
Where there is no Cerberus
To prevent our escape.
Just what was us
And implacable fate.
The last
Of the summer grass
Is mown.
The future is unknown.
The past
May be a guide.
But we decide
What seed is sown.
But does grass
In the mower’s grasp
Feel itself free …
Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
I listen dutifully as he speaks of forestry.
A soft breeze whispers in trees
And I am far away where wind plays
Through the forest and through me.
K Morris - Poet 