An After Word on Fraptious Day

She went out when he came in,
they lived inside a weather-house.
They found the decor very strange.
Their hearts were in a dreadful spin.
She was quiet as a mouse
but Hatter wasn’t quite deranged,
not at the moment seasons change.
Sometimes time will stand quite still
and when that hopeful moment came
they built a new house on a hill,
they found a place they both could fit.
If Alice shrinks or grows quite tall
Hatter fails to notice it.
It has no consequence at all.
And when his moods are quite bizarre
he never walks off very far.
Which only shows,
you never know
which way next a story goes.


Old Timbers

away from home
i think of old timbers
weathered by time
firelight reflects
on warm weathered wood

rattling windows
shelter lovers in tangled embrace
the old shutters tap
and swing back in the wind
in the blast of a storm outside
the weathercock spins
and turns twice about unhinged

this contrast of images
inside and out
where light does battle with dark
seems to sum up the world
where we cannot hide
and time is unfurled
but our hearts are well understood


the summer,
always beautiful,
does not survive the storms
that winter brings

pierced with bitter icicles,
shattered hearts,
when lover part
with dreams they cannot mend

I see it every day,
a blizzard of bitter sorrow
snowflakes whirl and fly away
as lovers often do

snow drifts hide the paths we knew
banked around, too close, they hide the longer view

The Loom of Years by Alfred Noyes

In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.

The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.

Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,

One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The Masqued Ball


she is dressed like an angel
she is so perfect
he thinks
she may sprout wings
flying away in a moment

a heart is embroidered on the cuff
of his well-worn sleeve
it’s enough that she sees it
examines the finely made stitches
and smiles

he sees her eyes
clear, gentle, kind
as she flutters her swan feathered fan
across her lovely face,
a beating wing
allowing a glimpse of her mind

he wears a masque
his eyes, not well hidden,
bewitch her, and keep her there

the music is enchanting
they dance in a dream
tentative touching
they begin to open their hearts
in this harmonious dance
all is agreement
that this trance is worth keeping
preserving, defending, completing
even for life

in the morning
the music has stopped
the masques are removed
he bows, revealing his face,
he sees all that shows
beneath her smile
she curtsies with grace
they move away slowly
one unwilling step at a time



A Minstrels Art

To the tune of Midnight, performed by Loreena Vacano on Archlute

fortune favours those who strive
in darkness still to see the light
always keeping hope alive
as they journey on the path

though our troubles bring us pain
causing hurt and leaving scars
in time our hearts will heal again
when love is there to make us wise

not in judgement, nor in strife
will we find our perfect dance
with heartstrings tuned we play our song
bringing notes both sweet and strong
that reverberate in harmony to life

all is lovely, all is joy
as we turn and slowly spin
in life’s repeating endless dance
threading out and turning in
spinning dreams and mending all your hearts



No Roses

no need for butterflies and roses
no valentines, no pretty hearts
no cupids here, with flying arrows
no dear, I will never sing

a praise song to your beauty
no romance in tender words
i have nothing much to offer
i wont buy you gifts and things

don’t expect a honeymoon
i won’t give you wedding rings
nothing here is wrapped in ribbons
i make no eternal vow

respect i offer, honesty,
an ear that listens, this i bring
if you want this, hold it, keep it
it’s for you, take it now

The Soul is King

As large as the universe,

as small as our individual hearts,

joined as one,

manifest in many parts,

the blood of every woman and man

rises in the trees sap

and on the birds wing,

held in the throne of water and air

we live and die,

the flames of a fire.

The Soul is King.


We in our tiny lives,

brush against each other in passing.

I know my brothers and sisters

by their smiles,

by the light that shines in their eyes

and their glances,

by the stories they pause to tell when we meet.


There is an older wisdom

that stir in our dreams,



that which binds us,

passed as a torch,

hand to hand,

written in stars

and the shape of the land,

the land where the Soul is King.