The suffocating dark holds me tight,
Locked, in the arms of nightmare through the blackest of nights.
Sweating, unable to arise from my bed,
I lie, black imaginings running through my head.
A ghoul by the bookcase stands,
Intent on dragging me into death’s barren land.
What is that shadow on my bedroom door?
My dressing gown hanging or something more?
Venus in furs,
The populace stirs.
“How can a chap so plain,
One lacking a brain,
And so incredibly vane,
A goddess obtain?”
The people declaim.
The reprobate sighs,
“Tis money that buys,
The look of love in her eyes”.
Handbags and shoes,
herself she will lose,
for handbags and shoes.
Handbags and shoes,
the road she will choose,
drowning in booze,
for handbags and shoes.
I have known the darkest of nights,
Lost myself in sensuous delights.
I have felt the vampire’s fear,
Held her close and thought her dear.
I have seen her blood red lips,
Fought against her fatal kiss.
I have endured her fangs sharp,
as shards of glass within my heart.
I have watched the dawn come,
Perceived the vampiress turn and run.
Earlier today I visited the garden in Woolton Woods, which contains a large number of benches paid for by the family and friends of those wishing to commemorate the lives of the departed.
—
A walled garden.
Summer flowers bloom.
Memorial benches speak.
“One day that will be you”.
The following was written a day after having returned from a visit to Keswick in Cumbria. The lake is located at Lingholm, while the brook is situated some 5 minutes walk from the cottage in which we stayed.
Gentle ripples on tranquil lake,
May your beauty my sorrow take.
Brook that babbles the livelong day,
Thou will wash my cares away.
During my recent visit to the lakes, I visited St Bega’s Church in Bassenthwaite Cumbria, (http://www.visitcumbria.com/cm/bassenthwaite-st-begas-church/). The building is pre-Norman and it was amazing to touch the ancient arch, constructed out of rough hewn stone and know that it had been built prior to the Norman conquest of 1066.
As explained by the above link, the church inspired one of Tennyson’s greatest poems,
“Lord Alfred Tennyson stayed at Mirehouse in 1835 while he was writing his poem ‘Morte D’Arthur’ and St Bega’s Church inspired the opening lines:
‘…to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark straight of barren land,’.
A small distance along the shore you will find a simple open-air theatre erected by the Tennyson Society at the place where it is thought he composed much
of the poem”.
So many phantoms have there been,
Flitting through my waking dreams.
Spectres long forgotten stand,
Reaching out their ice cold hands.
Ghosts with nails sharp,
Tear the sinews of my heart.
Then with gaze cold,
Feast upon my immortal soul.
Wind chimes.
A clock measuring time.
Summer breeze from open door.
The heart is at peace, who can ask for more?
Oft he sought the perfect rose,
Enjoyed the flower where it grows.
Soon he found the blooms did pall,,
His dalliances they turn to gall.
Still he after pleasure strove,
Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.
Thorns they speared him through the heart,
Still his desire did not depart.
They found him lying on a bed cold,
In his hand a fading rose.
K Morris - Poet 