Just Went Away

Just Went Away

You didn’t say – just went away
and killed the dream that filled my day.
I really thought I knew you well
but deep inside you planned to flee
and didn’t tell. You gave no hint
about the end, like, ''I don’t need
you for a friend.'' Neither said we
didn’t care but suddenly you
were not there...

I can’t dismiss you
with a sigh. It matters that you
say, ''goodbye…''
So smile, and blow a
kiss before you go. Never run
away and leave your friend to grieve.

Birdman

Birdman

Bold Dewi Jones would leave his home
first thing every morning,
and trot him down to Towy Wood
just as day was dawning,
and there he filled his Tesco bag,
five pence from any store,
with chickweed celandine and seed
and other weeds galore.
Then he fed them to his finches
to peck at in the cage,
while he ate his Kellog Cornflakes
and read the sporting page.

When Dewi was a kid at school
he hadn’t many toys,
and on the farm out in the sticks
there were no other boys,
so the woods became his playground,
a bird his childhood friend,
and he played a game with finches
he prayed would never end.
Their songs were short machinegun bursts
that echoed through the wood,
and Dewi, in green camouflage,
would stalk like Robin Hood.

A grown-up now, he made a frame
that lay beneath a net,
and then with trails of wild bird seed
a crafty trap he set.
That’s how he caught his lovely birds,
cunning if not clever,
and neighbours came along to praise
Dewi-boys endeavour.
Yet we all new that in the wood,
birds sang like heaven’s choir,
while, in the confines of the cage,
finches were much shyer.

Now Dewi’s wife, religious was,
chapel every morning,
in Aberystwyth born and bred,
should have been a warning.
Though pleasant to the roving eye,
pretty as a flower,
like milk upon a summer’s day
she curdled and went sour.
“It’s wings God gave,” his wife would scream,
“so birds can rise and fly;
and nature gave them songs to praise
the wonders of the sky.”

One day while on his morning rounds
bold-Dewi had a stroke.
“An awful thing,” the village said,
“for such a lovely bloke.”
No muscle could the birdman move,
eyelids would not flutter.
The voice that once trilled, “Sosban Fach,”
not a word could utter.
We don’t know why God struck him down,
spite – or was it pleasure?
What e’er the Lord was dishing out,
Dewi got full measure.

Now Dewi’s sitting in a chair,
just staring into space,
and carers who come twice a day,
pour soup into his face.
His wife just up and left him,
no fuss or angry words,
just said, “I hate to see you there,
caged up like your birds.”

Liaison

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

LIAISON

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench and unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

Jobber

Jobber

He sits beside me on the pew,
the bell has ceased to toll,
a rugged man with piercing eye,
his hair as black as coal.

He casts a glance then weighs me up.
“There’s things a man should know,”
and then he stares ahead again,
his words are whispered low.

“I am the Resurrection come!”
The vicar starts the dirge.
“Lord Fibba’s cold,” the stranger croaks,
“the dead don’t re-emerge.”

I feel the urge to run away
so sinister the voice,
but blood is duty bound to stay,
I feel there is no choice.

“And even though we die we live,”
the priest is on a roll,
reciting spells from out a book
to save a wicked soul.

“I bet that makes m’Lady wince,”
the stranger shakes his head,
“she doesn’t want no comeback kid.
She wished old Fibba dead.

A shocking way of going, mind,
marauders in the night,
who only came to kill, they say,
a man too old to fight.

They stabbed him in the heart, they did,
an organ full of sin,
then left without a trace of how
and when they’d broken in.

He had it coming to him mind,
his life made work a farce,
three hundred quid a day he got
for sitting on his arse.

Then played away from home he did.
His wife is seething mad.
A beauty queen and young she is,
which makes it twice as bad.


Now all these fogies on the pews
would pull her into bed,
along with those ill-gotten goods
that live though Fibba’s dead.”

I shake my head that such a man,
uncouth to ear and eye,
can know so much about the life
of those who are so high.

“For memories we treasure,”
the vicar’s in a trance
and tries to get the flock involved
but doesn’t stand a chance.

The stranger slides along the pew
and whispers in my ear,
“Comes riding by each Thursday noon,
when no-one else is near.

Astride a big black stallion,
ne’er gelding or a mare,
a midday gallop in the woods,
knowing I’ll be there.

She pokes me with her whip, and then
she orders, ‘Follow me!
I will need you Mr Jobbing Man.
An urgent job you see.

These demanding hours of dressage
are all a girl can take,
play havoc with my back and thighs
and make my body ache.

Now you must massage me
wherever there is need;
but ne’er forget, rough jobbing man,
we’re of a different breed.’

Posh ladies like my jobbing hands
upon their tender flesh.
The broken nails and callouses
tell tales of my caress.

The morning that Lord Fibba died,
I’d scarce got out of bed,
when up she rides and hands to me
a box the weight of lead.

‘Lose this in the bog, my dear,
beneath the moorland sky.
Reward will come tonight, my love,
when I come riding by.’”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”
the vicar’s song is done.
Then when I look along the pew,
the jobbing man has gone.

Such joy! My love has killed her spouse.
Success is with our plan.
But what a hellish way to find
she has another man.

EVENING

Sitting here on the patio in the cool of an evening, sipping whisky.
Lone birds, wending home across the heavens. Fleecy cirrus,
pink-tinted by the setting sun, drifts in from the sou’west
forming exotic fish in my vast aquarium of darkening blue sky.
Bedtime rooks shout from the copse beyond the roofs;
last of the birds chirping in the trees; cool air drifting in with a damp
night-smell of nearby fields where a crow coughs and scours for supper.
Cat slinks by with wicked eyes, on the prowl for a vole or mouse...
Flowers will soon be closing for the night.
I open a beer and thank God that my love is still by my side

Night of the George Robb

 

Night of the George Robb

December ’59. Sunday. Night. Rising wind.

Dark wheelhouse. Shadows. Cigarette flares. Face glows red.
Skipper Ryles peers out; black night, black sky, black sea streaked white. “In for a rough night.” Mind flash: wife and kids. “Home for Christmas.”

Saborowski, legs splayed; dipping deck. Eases into sea. Compass tilts, swings. Mind sees Teddy, pet spaniel, smiles.
Duffy, deckhand, pauses; false-leg firmed on pitching deck – accident when five. Flash: mother. “Week on Faroe Bank... Presents for sisters.” Duthie, sea-cook, nods. Secures pans. Tends stove.
Mackay, chief, grips bar, checks dials. Engine purrs. Flash: shore job... wife and bairns.
Mess-room men talk. Brace against motion. Sip cocoa. Engine throbs. “To a fair catch.”

Satan rides the eastern wind,
night as black as hell.
Menace in the powerful surge,
lumps leap from the swell.
Combers charge with snarling tops,
all in a chasing sea.
Ships pooped by waves the like of these
can’t rise or shake them free.

Storm roars. Rollers charge, break, race... spray, spume.
Ship rises; plunges. Seas thump!
Deck buried; millrace; deadweight.
Ship labours, shakes, rises; rolls... over... shudders... creaks...
Harbours closed. Seas pound; leap walls.
Skipper pensive. Radar cluttered. Beacons swamped.
Navigation gone. Boltholes lost.
Steel-bound coast. Caithness... Duncansby!
Corkscrew motion, “Undertow!”
Saborowski, instinct, wheel hard over.
Ship lifted, driven.
Raven black... “Cliffs!”
Breakers explode; surf, spume, fangs... “Rocks!”
Impact – crash! Men hurled; ship flung.
Combers thunder; seas rage...
Crunch! Blood. Cries! Broken bones.
Decks leap, buck, yaw. Metal screams; grates; crunches; grinds...
“Mayday!” Airwaves fill... Urgent voices...
Blast-bang! Sky flares red. Men leap from bed...

Saborowski fought the Germans in the wicked Nazi war.
Blood, death, fires of hell, seen it all before.
Faced with overwhelming odds, bitter lessons learned.
Plots writ in fate’s grim sacred-book are never overturned.
No shame, when faced with certain death, for men to run away.
Retreat, regroup, regain your strength to fight another day.
Into the roaring frenzied surf, the fisherman must leap.
Cold... Cold... So bitter cold... Saborowski longs for sleep.

Torchlight. Rocky slippery path. Wind-lashed crags.
Villagers: knowers of coves, rocks, reefs.
All aid each; storm-driven rain.
Siren pleads; wind-snatches...
Coastguard: weight-laden; breeches buoy, shackles, ropes, posts.
Struggle, stagger...
Moorland, bracken, bog, walls, fences, swollen-streams...
Cold, numb, breathless, drenched, blinded, ache, pain.
Cliff; searchlight...
Ship... there... far below – smashed!
Seas crash, swamp, batter. No life seen.
Rope-rocket fired. Wind flings back.
Once, twice... Five times they fail.
Lifeboats: Wick, trapped in port –
Longhope: rocks, reefs, death-hungry seas...
“Campbell’s down!”
“Campbell’s dead! Yomp exhaustion!”

“No more lives! Stand down!”

Saborowski...
Dying now on cliff bound beach,
so close to help, yet out of reach.
At home a dog pines through the night,
aware maybe, of master’s plight.
Grey dawns the morn on many lives;
fatherless bairns and widowed wives.

George Robb, lost with all hands, 6^th December 1959

Brexit

Sweet Dream of Brexit.
Fly with Boris, Dunc and Gove.
Cameron wrecks it.

NHS LIMITATION – SENRYU

 

They cured his herpes,
NSU and syphilis.
His age proved fatal.

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal is silent, blushing at the dawn,
thin veneer of beauty heralding the morn.

Scorned and mutilated, living with the hounds,
chattel of the bad men by the palace grounds…
Never ending evil meets them off a train,
buys them in a village, then inflicts the pain.
“Amputate! Infect them! Smash an arm or leg!
Make them our possession, only fit to beg.”

Taj Mahal is mystic, love song of a shah,
music of a river echoing afar.

Gentle men and women viewing Mogul’s stones,
fountains of compassion: “Show them broken bones;”
get the ragged army limping on parade,
begging bowls a-banging, injuries displayed.

Symbol of submission, baby at her feet
hasn’t got a pillow, sacking for a sheet;
screaming and hysterics, battle for the prize,
quelling ranting mother, blinding baby’s eyes.

Taj Mahal is awesome, shimmering at night.
Agra folk are sleeping, Milky Way glows bright.
Glorifying heaven, planets rove the skies.
Satan roams the shadows, mid the cripples’ cries.

Written when ISIS was on the crest and a giggle of British schoolgirls were brainwashed on twitter.

The Rubaiyat of Zarah

Only peace and no recrimination

in the garden of my destination.

Immortal youths will serve and comfort me

in my fiery final incarnation.

Just a single-minded slave of Allah

never destined for the field of valour

till fate decreed for me a path unplanned

into the Hall of Martyrs, Inshallah!

Wise twitter-sirens of the Caliphate

send thoughts that pierce my mind – then detonate!

“Think! Will our next Saladin be your son?

Which humble bride will Allah nominate?”

All cyberspace is full of such bold thought.

“Heads full of maths and science come to nought.

What good is there in studying the earth

when Allah’s word is all that should be sought?

The West, beguiled by Satan, lost its way.

When fashion dazzles girls they go astray.

Forgetting God they lose their pride in self,

while Paradise is just for those who pray.

It’s woman’s blessed realm to operate

behind a veil where men will venerate

and pay them due respect. When sexes switch

their roles, societies disintegrate.

Your place is here in our Islamic State

to be a bride and brave jihadi’s mate.

Past seventeen a girl is deemed too old

so flee your bonds before it is too late.

Sister, for you we have a simple plan,

haste to your wedding day as fast you can.

Be chaste! Then fast and pray your daily five.

Breed many Muslim martyrs with your man.”

So to Mosul, in answer to the call

I came in niqab, covered overall,

to be settled in the house where future

brides are, by imams, taught and held in thrall.

“All disbelievers carry Allah’s curse.

It says so in the Qur’an’s holy verse.

Then, Slay them where you find them, says the book.

They are the fiends of Satan and perverse.

Their armies now are at our very gate

and raining bombs down on our Holy State,

but we don’t fear the wicked infidel,

for Allah’s sons will smite them down in hate."

Then, suddenly, a fatwa is proclaimed.

A missile into London will be aimed.

Disguised, a girl will travel as a bomb.

At morning call our martyr will be named.

All day we sisters panic sweat and quake.

At night we cry and pray and lie awake.

Which girl, a would-be bride, will have to die?

The imam says, “Be brave for Islam’s sake.”

At dawn the imam points a hand at me

and shakes his head in answer to my plea.

“You’re Allah’s choice, stand tall and show your pride.”

But all I feel is terror’s urge to flee.

Then I am led away and told my youth

is lacking in the facts of holy truth.

I must absorb the lessons of the book

and then go forth as Islam’s sabre-tooth.

“Fighting is obligatory for you.

It tells you so in Surah number two.

On disbelievers Allah puts a curse,

so kill the Christian and wicked Jew.

Make war on them till Islam is supreme.

These facts are not a foolish imam’s dream.

You’ll read them all in Surahs two to nine.

We lovers of the book work as a team.

Now off to Turkey where you melt away

as loving brothers speed you on your way

and teach how best to detonate the bomb

when you appear in London on the day."

Convinced that this is where my future lies

I hug my friends in tearful fond goodbyes  

because the imam’s lessons taught me that

Islam’s success must feed on Kafir’s cries.

At last I saunter through the vast arcade

where filth and Satan’s spawn are on parade.

“Kill and be killed for Islam and it’s cause.”

And my reward? “A gown of golden braid!”

“Make war on infidels,” true Muslims yell.

“Be harsh, for they are vile and come from hell.”

The girl who ran away is now a bomb.

Fearless! Inspired by Islam’s mighty spell.

I pray and feel the bomb-belt hug my flesh

a child asleep in mother's niqab creche.

One flick will blast these Kafirs back to hell

while I, in paradise, start life afresh.



A Christmas Remembered

A Christmas Remembered


A winter’s morn; the earth is
still. Leaves and grass gleam virgin
white as vapours shroud the distant
hill. Birds forage in field and
wood where the pond is steel. The
sharpened air, a whetted knife,
reveals to me my lover’s
breath. God – I see her very
life! We spread our pence beneath
the tree, but love is all the
gift we need, and love is free.

Beware the Shadows

Beware the Shadows

Do they frighten you like they frighten me
these downcast sons of low-caste mobs?
As you lock them away and lose the key
their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.

These downcast sons of low-caste mobs
fuel rebellious-dreams with drugs and beer.
Their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.
They chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer.

Fuel rebellious-dreams with drugs and beer
to ease the day-long searing pain,
they chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane.

To ease the day-long searing pain,
as you claim the dues for their squalid-lets
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane,
pale parents wail and rail against the debts.

As you claim the dues for their squalid-lets
children scream of cruel-oppression.
Pale parents wail and rail against the debts
as they spiral through depression.

Children scream of cruel-oppression
trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave
as they spiral through depression
training for the life of a low-wage slave.

Trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave,
youth stolen by forsaken-school,
training for the life of a low-wage slave
in lawless-class where bullies rule.

Youth stolen by forsaken-school
dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
in lawless-class where bullies rule
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.

Dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
whose minds are brutalised by stress
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress.

  

Whose minds are brutalised by stress
seek false-pity from none nor spare a friend.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress
for there is no prize at this journey's end.

Seek false-pity from none nor spare a friend
where honest labour will not pay
for there is no prize at this journey's end
and brute-frustration rules the day.

Where honest-labour will not pay
the deprived will study the plumper-breeds
and brute-frustration rules the day
when the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs.

The deprived will study the plumper-breeds.
The game is called accumulate.
When the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs
cruel-rules are there to contemplate.

The game is called accumulate
where they dirty-deal for the master-share.
Cruel-rules are there to contemplate.
When the winner-takes-all none will play fair.

Where they dirty-deal for the master-share
beware the shadows of the night.
When the winner-takes-all none will play fair.
Paupers leap-out to snatch their right.

Beware the shadows of the night
as you lock them away and lose the key.
Paupers leap-out to snatch their right.
Do they frighten you like they frighten me?

Fashionistas - Haiku

Fashionistas

Hijabs storm catwalks.
Beards takeover trendy chins.
Fashion worships faith.

Mirror World

Mirror-world

A life ago my father said, “I saw

your plane pass overhead; stood alone in

wind and rain and watched you go.” I shrugged and

went upon my way, “Choose the way you waste

your day. I've hay to make and seed to sow.”

Then, amid the hours of feeding pets and
tending flowers, I saw the vapour-trail
bisect the sky, a tear spilt by the bluest
eye as you went out to set-about a
world I'd left undone – to sing the songs I
couldn't hum, and all my love was on the
wing in tender wistful thoughts of you that
day. My father must have felt this too but
couldn't say, and I, the one with life to
find, wouldn't pause to read his mind. I know
it's much the same for you, just doing what
you have to do, but if we never say
or show, how can the other ever know?

The one is always unaware as at
the other's heart they tear. My sorrow as
you speed away is full of words we did
not say. Maybe one-day you'll feel this yearning
too... in the mirror-world of me and you.

To My Friend

To
My Friend.
Such numbing
news is all my grief.
For at the height of that
God given day, grim death,
yon callous thief, broke in my
heart and stole your life away. All
my thoughts are disbelief. So short
ago I felt you pulse within my hands;
saw passion flaring in your flashing eye.
I rave and rage against disease and rant
at all who failed to save the focal point of
all you meant. And what of me, who reassured
you to the end? Your really very fickle friend, who
shied away from stretching hand and frightened
child you hid within. Emotions well and choke
remorseful in my throat as
bitter
tears
come
scald~my eye.
Your ashes now enrich the ground; your soul, in smoke, floats heaven-bound; but still you pulse in this – my heart. A part of me it was that died.

The Barmaid

Manchester – in the final days of the smoky old town.

 Listed buildings, monoliths, stand amid the rubble of demolition,

tower-block flats and new estates…

The Barmaid

The bar lights define her, a pale girl
and thin, puppet playing in a booth.
Alert for the long shift she watches
the shadows hunched at the dark tables,
selectors, tacticians, experts reliving irrelevant
games. ‘Do these people ever get real?’

Her mind flees through the window
where, in twilight, rubbish filled sites are gestating.
Her young eyes, unaware, see rain come sweeping
the long empty yards and weeping on derelict firms,
glistening the brick of the devil-dreamed towers
in hell-seeing streets of steel-shuttered shops
where a base-born baby cries in grandmother's arms.

The bar-bum accountant, aged beyond years
with worries of fees, scrapes the price of a pint
from his pocket and shuffles towards her.
She finds herself pulling a pump
in a monolith pub, spared bomb blasting
balls and bulldozing jaws in a mad-architect's
dream of a traffic‑choked scheme – pavements
of vomit and pampered-pets’ shit ochred
by lamps on designer-frame posts.

(Around her, forgotten, the ghosts play the
game‑with‑no‑rules in the dream where the
strikers who ran for the reds were beaten
and blooded by penalties forced by the blues
but dreamed of the goal they would mould
and then leave for descendants to score).

The sages, oblivious in red and blue blindfolds,
watch her sway at the pump. Without knowing
she sees them as losers who funked the one match
that was fixed in their favour – and she
has a baby that cries through the night.

Death Spell

   

Sorry about this one. It’s a bit depressing – but that’s all a part of life's rich tapestry

                        Death Spell

Icy mists of shame enshroud my blackened-soul.

Harsh klaxons, blaring from my heart, proclaim all

squalid thoughts. Flares, illuminating caverns

full of nightmare-fiends, reveal a frightened child

lying sobbing in the dark. Metamorphose

walls flash me naked at the world. Pride deserts

as gutting-scalpels fling self-loathing-roots and

innards to the judging, scornful mocking mob.

Flee this terror of exposure, flee your dear

though unearned-love, bolt rabbit-scared through
black-night woods on menace-ridden hills. Run,
forever-banished in misery's driving-rain, stumble

bleeding on the flint-hard nettled-fields of pain.

Reality dissolving, sombre-brooding roots,

Zombie-float through mirage-days of chilling

vapour-dreams, curled up tight in flimsy-veil of

shielding-shell, tried; condemned; exiled within a

self-made cell, impotent to melt the fangs that

freeze the bonds that bind the death-wish in the spell.

Poison-seeds rain soft on fertile gardens of

a troubled-mind. Flowers bloom, in whats? and whys?

and awful rows of fearful hows? Answers ring –

crystal bells – from secret-lakes of tear-blood dew.

Help-cries garble, sane outside... death-mad within.

Talk ‘morrow-talk with me ten-million-miles

from you, engrossed, obsessed, cocooned within a

dreadful plan. In here there is no coming-dawn,

no more, no us, no anything. Who loves you

so, would go and leave you with this mist of shame.

You found my shame and beamed into my soul with

rays of healing-truth, dispelling mist and vile

veiling-shell while thawing out the frigid-spell.

Caithness

 

This one needs a glossary

It’s an attempt to portray the passage of time on the landscape

Glossary

dead-brochs                         = plundered  Pictish  towers

sepulchral  weals                 = burial mounds

ghostly druid-stones             = standing-stones (stone-circles/menhirs/megaliths)

Clearance                            = Highland Clearances (removal of inhabitants to make way for sheep)

flimsy boxes                         = new pretentious housing

fresh and eager crop            = refers to both youth and crops

peaty-flows                            = Flow Country (Caithness eco system}

foreign firs                               = alien trees - planted by speculators (also human incomers)

                                                 

CAITHNESS

(Pantoum)

He falls and snuggles like a lover to the floor

dreams spilling from the bottle in the weathered-hand.

Beyond the door dead-brochs lie buried on the moor.

Forebears are but sepulchral-weals upon the land.

Dreams spilling from the bottle in the weathered-hand

where ghostly druid-stones gather for the moon-dance.

Forebears are but sepulchral-weals upon the land –

grey-tombs blending with the plunder of the Clearance.

Where ghostly druid-stones gather for the moon-dance

frail farmer huddles in the shelter of the dell.

Grey-tombs blending with the plunder of the Clearance

as flimsy-boxes march in fashion on the swell.

Frail farmer huddles in the shelter of the dell.

The peasant wearies of the burden of the toil

as flimsy boxes march in fashion on the swell

to shoulder for the view they one-day will despoil.

The peasant wearies of the burden of the toil

just as a fresh and eager-crop spring from the seed

to shoulder for the view they one-day will despoil

aware the time has come to take the misty-lead.

Just as a fresh and eager-crop spring from the seed

out on the peaty-flows the foreign-firs take hold

aware the time has come to take the misty-lead

with roots deep-nourished by the corpses in the mould.

Out on the peaty-flows the foreign-firs take hold.

Beyond the door dead-brochs lie buried on the moor.

With roots deep-nourished by the corpses in the mould

he falls and snuggles like a lover to the floor.

Charlie Gregory
Caithness

Gifts for Elizabeth

New town, new job, strapped for cash.
It was her birthday and this was all I could afford.

         

          Gifts for Elizabeth

Look into the sky tonight and travel

back in time where diamonds light forever-

up beyond the Milky Way, and if you

know the stars by name you'll never be alone.

See Lunar, queen of all the nights, a-glide

with silver smiles; lingers while the morning

mist shimmers-all with dew then hides among

the vapour-screens to watch her lover rise.

How mighty rides the Sun King, Midas of

the morn, transforming leaden-sea and sky

to sheets of dazzling gold; red-carpets lie

on cloud-scapes of plains and mountain-passes.

Purple-anvils forging hailstorms, thunder

clapping lightning flashing. Buddhas billow

then dissolve in peaceful islands floating

high... now yellow skies of driven rain-squalls.

Flooding fields send swollen rivers rushing

to the sea, where they boil and steam in the

tropic-tides then leap on the wind and flee –

to return in tears to their native hills.

Such glory is the earthly-engine, where

sylph-rainbows float on fields-of-flowers that

mirror back their subtle hues while starry-

fish flash in inky-seas of ever-night.

Deep forests whisper secrets to the fields

and jungle-hedgerows where busy insects

drone. Fisher-folk of spiders spin beauty

into webs that find jewels in the frost.

Savours of the planet are bound into

a whole by the pulsing of the hours in

the rhythm of the days that circle in

the seasons of the spiral of the years.

There's a presence and a theme in the beat

of the never-ending dancing of the

ocean on the shore – where a gypsy-wind

croons love-songs to the birds that pipe and soar.

To melt into this music is to blend

into the motion and form again the

beauty of our truth, where minds are laughing

ripples on a stream that runs for ever.

Find succour in the knowledge that all of

us are one, and the substance of all things

is the universal essence of the

                         stars... and see strife as but a passing phase.