Are all the single
Young men and women
Forgoing the sweet tingle
Of sinning,
And spending their time
In rhyme,
While
We are in lockdown?
I smile
And think
That some may drown
In drink,
Whilst others dream.
But much, you know
Will go
Unseen.
Though the odd neighbour may snitch
On those who scratch an itch …
I met a young lady named May
Who said, “I regret I can not stay”.
I said, with tears of great sorrow,
“Young woman, each precious moment we borrow.
But, ’tis still April, my dear young May!”.
In mid April
The birds sing
And start
A rill
Of hope in my heart.
Surely this Covid thing
Will pass?
But, for now lad
And lass
Are glad
That birds still sing
In spring.
Back seat
Car meets.
Or a certain hotel,
That she knows well.
Birds sing
In spring.
At 19,
What does she dream?
When a young lady named Michelle
Said, “you should sell, sell sell!”.
And I said, “are you a stockbroker?”,
And she said, “no, I’m a joker”.
I said, “I prefer miss Nell!”.
A young lady whose name is Kate
Said, “the evening it grows very late”.
So I gave her a kiss,
And she cried out in bliss.
Then her father he opened the gate!
On a beautiful spring night
I heard, with some delight
The gentle tick tock
Of a long deceased clock.
Time is always there.
Yet I care
For the tick tock
Of an individual clock.
Each, separate timepiece
Must,
One day
Cease.
And I shall go away,
And all the philosophy discussed,
Shall turn to dust.
Whilst walking in the forest green
I met with the fairy queen,
Who said,”la belle dame sans merci”.
I said, “do, please excuse me,
But is this a Keatsian dream?”.
Walking through the wood
In this weather hot
I think on should,
And should not.
I shall be good.
But, I have heard tell
That nymphs herein
Dwell.
Some say, that they
Are shy.
I shall stare at the sky
For, therein,
Sin
Is not.
Above, the hot
Sky,
Whilst below
Nymphs go
By.
I
Walked the woodland path
And passed
By
Tall, slender flowers.
Now I
Traverse, in verse
That self-same path,
And grow flowers
In my mind.
The flowers
May be gone tomorrow.
For I find
That we borrow
Time.
True, many a rose
Has been emmortalised in rhyme
But the poet knows,
That he has limited time.
K Morris - Poet 