A GENTLE AGEING:

There´s no long life eternal do I want nor need,

Already garbed in wrinkle & old widow´s weed,

Just give me the peace & quiet of my gentle age,

As I now have wisdom of supposed gentle sage.

No harsh dyes & fillers to smooth ruts & crease,

My silver halo flows free & now gives me peace,

For me, no noisy music, of drum or clanking tin,

My melodies now, of wave, bird & breeze, my din.

No hard daubing of face, nor tight silly high-heels,

Just two gnarled old feet, no need for fancy wheels,

Just rose touched cheek, no more need for disgrace,

My gentle ageing, I hold dearly & daily now embrace.

On the dawn of my departing, I shall not be screeching,

Only my old & used up arms, now empty & far reaching,

And on dawn´s song, of sweet & humble turtle dove,

I shall gladly fly up to my original home, far up above.

CARESS:

A finger across the cheek caressed,

A tucking behind ear of errant tress,

A sad-sobbed tear softly wiped away,

A flighty kiss that erred went astray,

A feather settling upon waiting knee,

A farewell leaf from an autumn tree,

A butterfly kissing the summer cheek,

A gentle paw from life´s most meek,

A raindrop, sun ray or flake of snow,

A soft breath from winds that blow,

In so many ways I am truly blessed,

Since your leaving, I´m still caressed.

DAME OF ECHOES:

Dame of echoes,

How gently, she plays with the voices of the dead,

How softly toying with words, all within the head,

 Sinister her teardrops, dripping at midnight hour,

Insistent her tolling, of bell from old church tower.

Dame of echoes,

Her voice in the echoing, of memories dead & gone,

Her touch in shadows, where sunshine long once shone,

Her breath, within cleavage of the mountains in the sky,

Her words left unsaid, upon dead tongues of lover´s sigh.

Dame of echoes,

I hear her footsteps, through life´s corridors & long halls,

Upon past winds, she sings with orchestras of dead balls,

Whisperings of childhood & dreams that should have been,

Dancing through my head, & heard, rather than be seen.

LADY L:

The kiddies called her loopy, the adults said insane,

She lived in Lilliput Cottage, down in Lavender Lane,

Always dressed in lilac lace, with violets in her hair,

And with pretty old Lady L, no one could compare.

 Dancing through deep woods, of larkspur & soft lilies,

Never caring one jot, that people just called her silly,

Gamboling stark naked, over soft hills of lilac heather,

Feeding golden linseeds to her friends of fine feather.

With a lavender lotus blossom, in purple plumed hat,

She´d dance the lindy-hop gaily, with dark plumy bats,

And laughing out loudly, off to Lindisfarne shed wend,

Just convincing one & all that she was round the bend.

This old lupine-lidded lovely, made all her own rules,

Wafting through old forests, dipping toes in cool pools,

Lifting linden-flowered skirts & dancing round old wells,

Folk merely nodded, saying, “There goes crazy Lady L”.

PHANTOM:

She roamed old halls of midnight´s ice,

When all slumbered, except bats & mice,

Wafting lightly, dressed in Victorian lace,

Through corridors of old assassin’s place.

A flash of passing white & a hint of mist,

Cold breeze on neck, what have I missed?

A feeling so strong, that someone is there,

Was that someone touching soft, my hair?

A whispered breath, a sob, a drawn out wail,

Scratching midnight pane, with long dead nail,

A whiff, aroma of perfume, long dead buried,

A glance askance, passing tress, lip red cherried.

Imagination, nightmare or mere passing dream,

Am I asleep, awake, silent or stifling mute scream?

Is it lightning in the sky or just a passing lantern?

Shh child, it´s just me, your passing future phantom.