Tuesday, August 18, 2015
I can't believe it's more than a year since I last posted on here.
THE OLD HOUSE
How did you end up without your clothes
on a quiet back road where nobody goes.
Choirs of daffodils, are singing out loud,
remembering the days, you once stood proud.
A click of the shutter, your beauty shines through,
Oh how I wonder, what happened to you?
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX
Without you, there is no magic
in the shadows any more.
I don’t see the cruise ship
whisking us to Madeira,
or the dozing bird of prey,
head turned into chest
but occasionally an ebony panther
creeps stealthily across the curtains
before melting to the floor,
chased by the hunters’ gun.
When our hands intertwined
a phoenix rose
soaring across the ceiling
with our hopes and dreams,
sometimes chased by spiders,
eagles’ wings or a bobbing rabbit,
that made us chuckle with delight.
I can still make the rabbit
but the phoenix has gone,
leaving an emotional void
to cast a heavy shadow across my heart.
Let the soft breeze kiss my face
and whisper secrets through my hair
as silver sand blots falling tears and
whisks between bare toes
tempted by the ebbing tide
that snatches pastel pebbles
with a sharp intake of breath .
They clash like castanets
with rhythmic percussion
punctuated by shrieking terns,
dashing to and fro,
protecting secret nests
leaving me to my thoughts
and whimsical dreams drifting
far beyond the horizon.
A poem written about a difficult time in my life which was helped very much by the solace at a very special place : The Bothy.
LUNCH AT LOSSIE
One in red,
one in blue,
chitter chatter, chitter chatter,
no uncomfortable silence,
just relaxing chat,
neatly coiffed hair and
delight that they’ve done their bit
and retired to a life of
nice little lunches,
with neatly pressed creases
in coloured slacks and
sensible flat shoes
that don’t stress aching ankles.
Sharing the bill
til the next time
same time, same place.
A table of four makes less noise,
two generations, awkward silent,
hotching in seats, staring out windows,
watching the rigging dance in the breeze.
Between the two tables I sit and listen,
pretend to be deep in my scrawls across
a battered notepad as I
anticipate succulent white fish
cooked with butter and feel relieved that
I am as I am, alone and able to leave when
it suits, go where I want and do as I please.
SUNSET AT FINDHORN
It tugs at your heart like a rose’s thorn
determined to linger in your thoughts
as a medallion of molten gold
slips softly through darkened clouds
and lifts your spirits to a higher plain.
There are no words,
which is why we stand in awe,
aching for that golden magic to
somehow stop and stay forever.
The silhouettes of wading birds
wander slowly across the rippling foreshore,
oblivious to the fiery palette
that brings the lovers and loners
to share the evening solace.
So near you yearn to reach out
and touch that special something
but instead remain entranced,
under its hypnotic spell,
grateful to share the moment
that disappears so quickly
in one fiery yawn
slipping silently behind
distant ink black mountains
that seem to have swallowed it whole.