Water from our hills

We climbed a stile oh what a reservoir
Water from our hills served other towns
If you’re listening, theres no editor
We climbed a stile, surprised the reservoir
We don’t have our pure water anymore
We may have perfect kitchens but we frown
We loved the stile, we saw the reservoir
Water from our hills stole by yon’ towns

Green path

By the green path, sheep were being sheared
The shepherd composed in his mastery
The sheep were not as frightened as I feared
Down the green road, sheep were being sheared
The world was never gentle, why my tears
The force of Nature, fearless, has endured
Whether there is Good is mystery
Down the green path, sheep were swiftly sheared
The shepherd humble shows his mastery

The nameless and the named


Words are not the object they describe
Maybe they are pointers,are a guide
Warm, the word. does not make many hot
Warmth refers to quality or not

In between the word and what it names
There is a space where others might seek change
Then we have the nameless we may see
Outside any box or category

Now there is no subject, just the text
Where are those ancient scrolls that once were blessed?
For books are not just many written words
They’re touched by all the people who have read

Am I nothing but an aching gene
Watching Princess Di now on my screen?

The broken doll

They gave me a small watch on Xmas Day
But with a watch an eightyear old can’t play
I envied both my sisters theirnew dolls
As on the old settee the dolls were lulled
I stood there uncomprehending and alone
Had I reached unknown a real milestone?
Then my sister lent me one of hers
I broke that little head upon my chair
I was holding her with all my tenderness
Scarcely breathing in my velvet dress
I sat down slow to rock my babe awhile
The horror of her cracking head was vile
Now I play with numbers and with words
Xmas is a problem to be shared

The reason was my Dad was dying.He wanted to give my older brothers and me
watches as he would not be here when we were 21.The watch was a traditional
gift then.