Foggy park

I went  into the middle of the park
Thick grey fog had made it almost dark
I stood there with my cello and my books
I had found a space where noone looked

There was not much privacy  at all
The front door was left open, neighbours called
Grandad came with Lassy his sheepdog
He gave us sweets and  ate my mother’s bread

Now I have chubb locks on my front door
The neighbours do not walk here anymore
They jump into their cars and speed away
No little chat, no  updates on their day

Locked in metal cars without a map
We’re distant  or too close, so mind that gap

 

 

 

 

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Silverdale

I wish we were in Silverdale again

The meadow full of flowers,the nettle’s sting

The boarding house,the hedges rich with song..

The sketch pad,ink, the birthday pen

I miss m

My brother’s humour and his wacky games

I miss his buoyant face, his eyes untamed

At least he’s not in prison doing time.

I liked the way he misprounced my name.

I wish we were on Windermere today

The bouncing sun,the blossoms rich display

Come back now I love you anyway

My heart was stabbed with death,you went away

I saw your shadow cycling in black rain.

May we help each other with the pain?

Goodbye


There was a holy place made with the screens
Where lay the old man, trembling into dream.
His face was pale, his nose felt like white ice
An offering on the block for sacrifice.

The sacred place was marked by song and prayer
Made quietly so no-one else would hear.
He held my hand and whispered, please don’t go.
I held him in my heart, as his went slow.

A cocoon made in noisy A and E
A strange place for the Lady God to be.
Deep silence underneath the usual noise,
Pierced only by my child-like singing voice.

I saw his soul.my tears fell down like rain

I felt the weight of grieving and of pain.
I heardl my heart crack, struck by loss and grief
Death had been there like a silent thief.

His pale face on the pillow seemed to smile
The kindness of strange angels did beguile

Oxford Holy Riddle

6819924_f1126074c2_m   brighter
Gold stone from Cotswold quarries young men brought

And built into a way of life for those who bought

Their lives so cheaply,And did not see

The children’s eyes,the ball,.the game ,the tree

Of life that grew in small backyards and gave all

To those who climbed into its arms.

Why should this not be you?

Oh,Eden,I see that you are nearer now

In lowly homes where love is free

Than in the temple, grove,and soft set brow

Of those who worship God in churches built of gold.

Now we must know that this is easy to behold

When sun is setting,and escapes the ashes

Thrown up and floating in the watches

Of the days of voter’e eyes cast up to skies

and,wondering fearful, what will come

when all the secret deals are done.

So take the gold of life and let it fall

Into your children’s growing souls

And let this Cotswold town and spires

Melt into sunset’s glowing orange fires.

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