Butterflies Wings (Afternoon with Macbeth)

Time passes,
time drags,
time repeats,
time snags,

Time ticks by.
There he lays.
The room is dark.
The room is cold.
Childrens’ voices pierce the veil.
Here is the killing of a King.
Lady Macbeth reaches out.
No-one grasps her bloodied hand.

Time rolls round
and time rolls round.
The end is set
by moments marked on a digital clock.
Death marks the walls with fast drawn chalk.
This is the circle ambition brings.
Generations repeat the sin.

In the street outside,
with early signs of April rain,
the swan bends down and folds its wings.

In the cafe down the road,
by the window where light falls
on polished wood, the books are glued,
their pages shut, their words unknown.
An old man shuffles by alone.

On every table in the room,
the yellow rose is in full bloom.
Shakespeare’s lips are butterflies wings.
Four friends meet and seal a bond.
They all know the plays the thing.


Song for my Rose

When we first met she was a bud,
growing on the wayside,
but that was long ago
in days so near forgotten.
I didn’t see her gleaming.
My mind was far away
and she grew out of season.
In trembling ice and snow
her heart was hidden.
I was dreaming.

Now she is a full blown rose
and she exudes a scent so strong
so passionate, so haunting,
no man could e’er resist her.

I’d brave every storm that blows
but, growing in this peaceful place,
this flower could bloom forever.
And yet I had to pluck her.

I took her, my eternal rose,
to make my own, possess her.
I will never crush her.
I look at her and I’m inflamed
My soul, in swoon, soars high above.
She is the heart of my desire.
She will always be to me
a rose that glows in glory.
She is my own sweet sighing love,
the bloom that I will treasure.

Christmas Night

The bells were ringing
on silver frosted air.

I heard an angel singing
her voice was sweet and clear.

I was so entranced,
I walked into the night,
far out onto the ice,
where the moon shone bright.

My blades cut swirling patterns,
carving as I danced.
Spirals interweaving,
contained within a circle,
which, viewed from high above,
spread and spread and spread,
and I was filled with love.

I heard an angel singing
her voice was sweet and clear.
An ecstatic moment
That will long endure.
Many gifts I have been given
but none so strong and pure.


The Rose Outside the Church

The yellow rose,
like sunshine,
stands outside the door
of the founded, waiting church,
having more to give
than the sermon heard within

To see God, see the rose
From bud to bloom
it follows the sun.
It shines.
You saw it as a child,
this light,
and, though it decompose,
it is a prayer,
a perfume on the air,
a symbol of Gods love
in which we share.


Not Hers

don’t let all i do be about her
we all have a past,
it’s passed

i know how rejection feels
and the pangs of an unhealed wound
and a skin still sorely scarred

now you prick your finger on nothing
the thorns in the roses are gone
i cut them away, with precision

my thoughts are wrapped up in you
spilling onto the page
hidden in hundreds of words

don’t let her be the ghost
that walks through our rooms
shattering dreams

the vase in the house is full
with flowers of many seasons
picked and arranged for you

she was only a daisy,
crushed under your foot,
never a full blown rose

Baking Bread

knowing you were coming home tonight
i resolved to bake you bread
and fill the house with warmth

i gathered driftwood from the beach
i rose at dawn to light the fire
so the dough could rise

i went down to the cellar
to find a fine red wine
i stumbled on the stair

when i came back the fire was out
the fire beside the stove collapsed
it needed swift repair

by the time i mended it
my hair was full of soot
i had to take a shower

i went out to the market next
i bought the finest cheese
and olives black and green

time was growing short by now
i sank my hand into the bowl
almost in despair

i slammed it on the board
i kneeded it, i pummelled it
and left it there to rest

i went out to the beach again
to calm my savage breast

a good bread must be blessed

the kitchen is a peaceful place
when baking scents the room

good bread is earthly grace

my mind filled with the thought of you
i conjured up your face

good bread is an embrace

returning through the garden
i picked one summer rose
to set beside your place

when you came the bread was there
with olives, yellow cheese and wine
mixed with salt sea air

blessed with love and welcome
and smiles to greet you home

good bread is like a poem

The Wisdom of Bees

her heart is so tender
a delicate pink
with a deeper rose tinge
where the petals unfold
there is fire in the centre
but the bud on the outside is white
she has her thorns too
I am glad of that
she wont be harmed

how can i not love
a heart that’s like that?
it’s a flower
it’s a rose
the rose that entwines
winding its way over my walls

flowers grow far better unpicked
and the wisdom of bees
is that they know the value of honey
while they thirst for the nectar within

Tree of Hope

The bird baths all are cracked
by winters biting frosts.
I heard the blackbirds song,
a memory of water,
fluid in the air.
It seemed a sad reflection
of a sorry state of health.
The coldest days were long.
Everything seemed lost.
The paths were overgrown
with plants all running wild,
strangling and tangling
the roses, overblown,
spoiled by slow neglect,
in a garden once so loved.

Summer brought destruction,
smothering, spreading, fast.
A time of choice had come,
to recover all its glory
or let it go at last.
I would not be daunted.
The days were flying past.

All had been so lovely
in lazy days before,
those days so softly haunted
with thoughts of gardeners gone.
In sad remembrance of them
I set about the work.
I cleared the well worn paths,
discovered them anew.
Where the brambles barred me
I tirelessly pushed through.
Putting down my tools
I turned to go inside
to take a well earned rest.

It was then I saw the gift.
The garden had been blessed.
In a place I would have chosen,
beside a golden rose,
a single seed had fallen
planted by a bird.
A sign of new beginnings.
changing with the seasons,
uplifting tender leaves
to a future that’s begun.

Now in this sheltered garden
there grows a graceful Birch.
The silver of the winter
reaches for the sun.