Atop that friendless hill
sits the monarch of the trees.
The crumbling crown of a castle
wrought with misery.
In disregarded splendour,
that once fearful keep
becomes a blemish on the skyline;
a loss no mortal weeps.
His walls provided hope
to the soldiers of despair.
But once their plight concluded
they stripped and left him bare.
No longer his might is worshipped,
No more do they fall to their knees.
The only servant who bows to him now
is the wind in the boughs of the trees.
Between ochre sunset and glittering mirror,
mother and child stand.
Between the two; an elephant, calm as the river
and warm under hand.
The water cleanses the three. Sand squelches under toes.
Small fingers caress the rough nose.
Later, its head and back are donned with rug and cap
of cardamom and indigo.
Plodding down the dusty road, feeling the strains
of the cracked earth beneath.
And all of this frozen within the paper veins
of the leathery leaf.
Forever is the elephant, now fragile and thin,
depicted in brush strokes on silvery skin.
But what if?
Only once more…
More often than not.
Not a chance.
Are you certain?
Nothing makes sense.
Sense doesn’t matter.
Matters are out of control.
Control is hard to keep under.
Underneath it all I’m not okay.
Okay? The answer is yes.
Yes is a lie.
Lies get us nowhere.
Nowhere? I want to be somewhere.
Somewhere with you, but I can’t.
Can’t do it. It’s impossible.
But what if?
Happy National Poetry Day!
On the journey back from WGC,
an unusual feeling swept over me:
A sudden peace.
an inspiration increase.
Hatfield, Potter’s Bar, King’s Cross, Milton Keynes,
The Palace of Alexandra, imaginary queen.
Darkness lingers, streetlights join the stars,
flying in lines of light and dark.
Signs of life whizzing by,
too fast to catch with the human eye.
Silhouettes of trees and slatted roofs.
The moonlit water shining dew.
Dad fast asleep with folded arms,
leaving me to my creative charms
Until our stop. Then dad’s awake
and talking just for talking’s sake.
We’re beckoned by warmth, the promise of pie
and my hat’s left behind on the train to die.
Happy National Poetry Day! Here’s one I made earlier…
Only dog walkers and shortcut takers
venture in this cold.
A members only club, they gather under
unpopped popcorn blossoms
in their pedigree.
Garish coats of pink or blue pulled
up at the neck, outfits
adorned with whippets and wellies.
This is the weather of suncream and scarves;
white tipped grass sparkling in
the weak sun, gilding every blade,
The naked trees reach for the warmth,
but the cool breeze breathes on their fingers,
denied their lifeblood just
a little longer.