The restless wind
calls to the unquiet mind.
I see a swan upon a lake.
A serene
queen
she glides through the water
as some daughter
of the gods.
A man hidden in the reeds
scarcely breathes
for fear
she will notice him near.
The swan sings.
Her song brings
sweet melancholy to his soul.
The whole
scene
he dreamed
awakening to the restless wind
that calls to the unquiet mind.
A cold fire burns.
She turns
And looks.
She struts
Her stuff.
Her desire for cash
His decision rash.
Two souls zooming out of control
Down the primrose path
To hell.
All appears well
Then, smash!
I do recall
many a trip to Speke Hall.
The trees have seen it all
kingdoms rise and fall.
The old house stands
guardian of the land.
Now the airport has come.
and planes run
where once the squire walked
and talked
or perhaps shot
game for the pot.
Old books
one can not touch.
A family’s past preserved
behind rope.
Would the squire choke
at the sight
of the National Trust shop
where jam can be bought by the pot?
Do the dead
shake their head
as I gaze on their four poster bed?
The past conserved
In stones and words
As featherless birds
fly
Through troubled skies.
—
The construction of Speke Hall was started in 1530 and ended in 1598. It is one of my favourite haunts and is situated a few miles from my mother’s home in Liverpool. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speke_Hall).
“The world is a bleak place” I said.
You took me into your bed
kissing away
The words I did say
and strange to tell
All did seem well.
My dog snuffles
and scuffles
amongst the leaves.
He is just there
With no care
For what I think
As I drink
In the fresh morning air.
A weathered gate
leads to the old estate.
People hate
what they do not understand.
Ideals built on sand.
Foundations crumble
as the bulldozer rumbles,
sweeping all before.
It is the law
of progress.
There must be redress.
Let justice be done
though the heavens fall.
The ancient wall
that has stood the test of time
goes without reason or rhyme.
The crime
was to be great.
It is getting late.
Dogs bark and the caravan moves on.
It is going, going, gone.
Many thanks to Rebeca for reading and reviewing my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose”. For Rebeca’s unboxing video please visit https://booksandmessybuns.wordpress.com/2015/11/16/out-of-the-box-1/. For Rebeca’s review of “Dalliance” please see https://booksandmessybuns.wordpress.com/2015/11/23/review-dalliance-by-k-morris/.
The sighing breeze
can not freeze
the frozen heart.
There are no tears to start
welling up
From the dry brook.
A child’s innocent voice
Perchance makes the heart rejoice.
A little ice melts
And the soul struggles to be free.
I came across the below poem while browsing through a recently acquired collection of the poems of Emily Dickinson.
—
Look back on time with kindly eyes,
He doubtless did his best;
How softly sinks his trembling sun
In human nature’s west!
Warm summer days.
The haze
of belief.
Time is a thief
that steals
our ideals.
The secluded garden.
Ideas that harden.
The truth
youth
doth know
Oft ends in woe.
A book.
The path forsook.
The backward look
to a place
lost in mist
he can not resist.
K Morris - Poet 