BUTTERFLY:

Born one dewy day of golden morn,

Of tiny larvaed brain & soft wet wing,

Quivering damp upon petalled dawn,

 Gentle Butter-yellow & without a sting.

Soft as dark night´s flickering candle flame,

A mere darting of golden dusk´s sunbeam,

Flutter by butterfly, light in colour & name,

Flittering & fluttering skimming forest stream.

A long lost song echoing on summer breeze,

 Exit written on pages of moonbeam´s milk,

As unheard as the soft thistle´s elfin sneeze,

Of fleeting wishes, departing on wing of silk.

Kissing petals of lilacs & of the blood red rose,

You are but a satin whisper for just a single day,

On night´s encroaching, you sit in death´s repose,

Within petalled-folded wing, you bid farewell & pray.

LOVE LETTERS:

Sepia & tear-stained, in escritoire they dormantly lie,

Tied bundled with old ribbon the colour of fading sky,

Tiredly old & scented with the blooms of wild briar rose,

Untouched by forgotten years & lying in sweet repose.

Missives of passion, words of love & promised dreams,

 Letters of proposals & long planned & awaited schemes,

Kissed with exotic stamps & sealed with your sweet breath,

Young dreams lived, now gone into their far & loveless death.

With quivering ageing hand, loosening fraying soft blue bow,

A creased envelope I open, letting memories to fly, flow & go,

Those missives, those loving words, kisses, promises & vows,

Those sweet scented words of love that made me your spouse.

Without deliberation & further ado, the match struck & duly lit,

Obliterating with flame, deleting every line upon every page writ,

My end now nigh & with our vows & promises of undying love,

With smoke & one last breath, dissipating into heavens above.

SONG BIRD:

What is the sound I hear on the wind?

It´s the song bird,

Finding fruit fallen, ripened & skinned.

What is the laughter I hear in the sun?

It´s the song bird,

Happily free & gay, singing just for fun.

What´s the poem I hear in beams of the moon?

It´s the song bird,

Serenading midnight nocturnal & ebony tune.

What´s the song I hear above earth´s war zone?

It´s the song bird,

Giving thanks to God for the height of his home.

What´s the whisper I hear on the breathing breeze?

It´s the song bird,

Playing among feathery leaves of the dancing trees.

What´s the ancient story I hear in every living voice?

It´s the song bird,

He who daily sings because he has no other choice.

What´s the distant wailing I hear with growing rage?

It´s the song bird,

His echoing tears dripping on the bars of his golden cage.

PIAZZA AWAKENING:

Five in the morning & sleep eludes me, so I get up in the cool dawn & softly pad out of the room, leaving behind the all night´s fractured dreamings, sortings & schemings that snatched me from the arms of Morpheus my errant lover. Closing the door softly on the crumpled soft snorings, I go out into the quiet empty street. The silence would be sullen if it weren’t so delicious. I wend my way along the ancient city´s cobble streets, winding around whispering corners. I´m not entirely sure whether the clip-clop sound following me are my own resounding footsteps or those of history´s ale drays. Looking around me I realize that the only shadows embracing me are my own, din-laden in their silence. I walk past the old church of dead saints & hear the lost voices of choristers long gone & the whisperings of monks at their vespers & I bow my head. Leaving behind me the cloistered incantations, I make my sombrous way towards the mosaic-tiled, tree-clad piazza. The old trees of gnarled trunks, yews & cedars, planted long before my birth to give shade to those seeking succor from the unforgiving southern sun, a sun that still slumbered behind its mantle of nocturnal velvet. I arrive at the vacant piazza & sit on an old wooden bench besides the cascading fountain. Across the sleeping city an old church bell chimes the new day in, serenading the night´s last satin-winged bat, flitting past me on his way home. On the other side of the Piazza the gay voices of long dead chorines echoes from the peeling sepia walls of the old dilapidated music hall & I close my heavy-lidded eyes & wait for day to greet me. The sun creeps skulking behind the old tiled roofs casting rosy shadows that dance off walls & bounce off cracked pavements. I am kissed on my cheek by a sunbeam & open my eyes to find morning has arrived. An iridescent-feathered pigeon struts pecking up the nights crumbs. A rosary-rattling nun hurries past with folded hands & down cast eyes. Sounds now emitting from every corner of this old city waking up, yawning & stretching with people slowly getting to know the morn. An old woman shuffles to the bench on the other side of the crisp chattering fountain & from an old tattered bag she takes a handful of bread crumbs & throws them in direction of the strutting pigeon. On the scattering of crumbs a flock of birds descends from the shivering treetops above, scrabbling for an early free breakfast. Children scuttle past, giggling & pushing on the way to school, men in suits, women in heels, dog walkers & street cleaners with their brooms. An old man, bent & grey taps his walking stick past me, smiles & doffs his hat. I look around me & see the vibrant colours of the geraniums spilling over their pots around the Piazza. The last of the diamante dew drops clinging to slinky, sparkling spider webs, woven between the intricate wrought iron arm-rests of the old wooden benches, while their inhabitants sleep deeply. The aromas of freshly baked bread & rich espresso coffee beckon to me & I rise to follow their hungry beckoning. I step on crunchy burnished autumn leaves as they try to dance away in the frisky breeze. Now the sun is playing cruel tricks as the Piazza awakens to another hot day, so I seek the shaded beams as I wend my home lost in dawn´s dreams.

LITTLE BROWN TEAPOT:

Little brown teapot, now cracked & old,

Sitting on Nan´s old dresser, alone & cold,

This little pot was the centre of my life,

Daily filled through joys, troubles & strife.

Warmed to perfection, filled with best leaves,

Boiling hot water poured upon waiting teas,

Placed upon old table draped in rose cloth,

That smelled of sweet baking & soft as a moth.

Little brown teapot topped with warm cosy hat,

To keep its rich treasure safe, like wine in a vat,

Impatient & awaiting, the five-minute steep,

So anxious the wait & just wanting to weep.

The teacakes & scones with cream butter& jam,

Were laid on the table & all baked by my Nan,

But when at last she lifted the little pot of brown,

The golden ambrosia wiped away waiting frown.

Years flew by, Nan long gone & now the old Nan am I,

The little brown teapot brings a smile & nostalgic sigh,

Once used daily, for celebrations, the good times & bad,

Now it sits alone on the cabinet looking lonely & so sad.