Poetry

Memories

Here, amongst the memories,

laughing with the ghosts,

we found ourselves. In that room,

eating thinly sliced salmon,

drinking Frascati;

falling in love, Carelessly,

before the apple wood fire,

touching each other,

our hearts throbbing the rhythm;

lovers throbbing the rhythm,

that drew us closer

to the memories and the ghosts,

The Echo is the Music

The faded flowery paper

wrapped around the memories,

like the early morning mist

on Cley marshes. Love echoed

from wall to wall, and outward,

impregnating all it touched.

The warmth of a robin's nest,

carefully made and nurtured.

Hands wiped away tears, lips smiled,

and words took on the sweetness

of gold September sunshine,

filled us with hope and belief.

Euterpe, return me to that room;

The echo is the music

and I dance its tune.

The Flowers

The flowers that I gave you,

Sweet Peas, as a thank you,

that filled the Sylvac vase

and the room with fragrance;

did you not understand,

they were purchased with care,

to show that I love you,

not because they were cheap?

It was slow

Slow as a winter raindrop

sliding down the window.

Slow as an autumn leaf

drifting on the breeze.

Slow as a spring primrose

pushing upwards

Slow as the summer sun

falling on a spiders web.

Slow, but insidious,

from gentle to fierce,

wrapped in tenderness,

love grew.

The night is silent.

Owls conspire

to hush the darkness.

The harvest moon

plays hide and seek

with the wrack clouds.

Stars scatter

through the universe,

spread by a mad

Victorian fiddler.

The ancient Yew,

casts the shadows

of the ghosts

of a thousand years.

Moonbeams sneak

through the latticed window;

dance mischievously

over the oaken floor,

exciting the dust.

Do you remember that room?

Lit by candles. We supped

on fresh caught salmon,

poached in wine and fennel.

Drank Frascati and spoke

the language of love.

We touched hands and feet,

laughed and giggled,

for no obvious reason,

our eyes were bright

and searching.

But now, the night is silent.

Owls conspire to hush the darkness.

The moon, again, plays hide and seek,

but the clouds win; the oaken floor

is dark; the dust searches

for the moonbeams in silence.

Only the eerie shadows of the yew

remain to taunt and tease

the memories.