There is an equalitie in the grave
Where the brave,
The coward, the rich and the poor
All must bow down,, to death’s all conquering law.
In the beds of the living,
There may be mutual giving
And equalitie,
But love may not always be free
Oh tree at the edge of the park,
Oh warm imperfection of bark,
You where here ‘Ere I came,
And when I am gone, you shall remain.
Walking upon grass
I pass
Through light and shade
No maid
To accompany me,
Just the shade
Of the final tree
To engulf me
Wandering around Hampton Court
In late May, a thought,
Prompted by Wisteria hanging on a wall.
A few purple flowers, their scent
Already spent
And ready to fall,
Did to me call.
—
The flowering time for Wisteria is April to June. I visited Hampton Court with my friend, Brian yesterday (20 May).
What does it matter that you sing,
High up in yonder tree,
For your song is not for me,
And to sing
Is such a temporary thing
Waking early,
And being unable to return to the land of slumber,
Idly I wonder
About our need for sleep,
For we can not pretend
That he will not take us all in the end.
This rhyme
May, for a time
Survive. While I
Shall surely die.
The steady tick tock
Of the clock.
I am here,
You are not.
All my human pride.
I can not hide
From the inexorable tick tock
Of the clock.
Now I am here,
Then I am not.
Would
That I could
Find Chrysanthemums in bud.
For those in bloom
Are gone to soon.
I remember the sweet scent
Of the chrysanthemums that bloomed
In my grandfather’s garden.
Entombed,
They are long since spent.
Often do I have cause
For thought, yet seldom pause
Here for long.
Perhaps it is a strong
Desire to forget my fate
Which leads me, (be it early or late),
Without a backward glance
Lest by some mischance
I see my own ghost,
To post-haste, exit the graveyard gate
And enter again
This temporary realm of men.
K Morris - Poet 