After tea
And homemade cake,
And the crossword,
We heard,
Sitting in a London garden,
A wild, screeching sound.
“What was that?”, I said.
“A fox with it’s prey”.
Soon the screeching ceased
And our sunny day
Returned to peace.
A quick death
Is best.
And the dead
Read no romanticising poetry
Of death.
When a young lady known as Claire
Said, “I’d like to call you sir”.
I said to Miss Jane,
“Its you with the cane!
I think Claire should call you sir!”.
I know a young man named Keith
Who is known as a prodigious thief.
His pretty wife Lin
Is full of sin.
But I’m not that fond of Keith …
When an old man driving a hearse
Went and composed a very poor verse,
A corpse named Ted
Said, “I am dead!
But I still object to poor verse!”
Whilst visiting a place known as Clapham
A girl said, “I’ll make it happen!”.
When I said, “does it involve money?”,
She said, “o, my dear naïve honey,
Don’t you know everything does in Clapham!”
I check my feet.
The skin underneath
Has begun to crease
And my toes
Are sometimes stiff.
I am growing old.
I can not deny
My middle age.
But when girl’s feet
Pass me by
I know only dust
Will defeat my lust.
In the sunlit wood
I heard
The sound of love.
No word
Did I hear.
Simply the bliss
Of young lover’s lips
Came softly to me
As a bird
In a tree
Mimicked kisses for me.
Why do I
Obsess over fallen leaves?
Should I lie
And try to pretend
There is no end?
Trees do not grieve
For fallen leaves.
Nor will I,
For all must die.
Yet I see
A poignant beauty
In these bare trees
And Autumn leaves.
She looked
For her lost socks
In my flat.
On looking
I have found that
A lost earring
Or similar such thing
Is easily discovered
In bedcovers.
She found her socks
And I pleasure.
But, I wonder whether
I have lost
The capacity to love.
Now I’ve passed the half century mark
And the dark
Of night no longer hides from sight,
A girl’s hand
Laid on my arm
And the charm
Of her dark hair
Can still command
My poet’s heart and art.
All you said,
Was “take care”,
But your long black hair
And open heart
Brought the thought of bed
Where no lover does grace
The vacant space.
K Morris - Poet 