MEMORY OF A TOWN:

Spires, steeples & the echoes of long-ago people,

Mingling with grey mists of old time descending,

As footsteps from the past, tiptoe grey & wending,

Through cobbled alley-ways of past ancient history.

Keg carting drays, clip-clopping through misty greys,

Passing through mind´s distant memory, now gone,

Old streets dappled, but where the sun never shone,

Places where all was sold, but very little was bought.

“Cockles, mussels, whelks”, yelled from old mouths,

“Come buy, come buy”, on every corner, the shout,

The flower sellers, tinkers, tailors, everyone a tout,

Now, only silence reigns & life belongs to rats & cats.

The old town where town-crier called to everyone & all,

And old oaks stood, old books spoke, all in old grey stone,

Now, only ancient creeping ivy, wrapping old slate bone,

Enfolding wafting musty aromas, of smoky times gone by.

BOUQUET OF BUTTERFLIES:

I once gave you a bouquet, of pretty coloured butterflies,

Each trembling upon green stalk, reaching for blue skies,

Each little wing, a tiny petal, softly filigreed, silken & fine,

A myriad of colours, of cyan, saffron & of deep ruby wine,

Each one a precious jewel, a tiny, shiny & quivering gem,

All perched in floral gowns, upon nature´s seats of stems.

You spurned my precious jewels, of diamond, pearl & bead,

Didn’t want cut flowers, nor potted plants grown from seed,

You refused to accept the cruelty, of coats made out of furs,

You prefer the scent of rain, to that of musk, rose & myrrh,

You say hats with pretty feathers, should be flying in the sky,

And not pinned to your head, which will only make you cry.

But a bouquet of pretty butterflies, perched upon long stems,

“With freedom in their sight”, you say, “beats any ermined hems”,

A pretty rainbow of excited flitterings, eager to please the eye,

As each one, from its stem takes flight, up towards blue skies,

Filling your heart & soul with song & a joy beyond compare,

“A gift of freedom”, you said, “one for the whole word to share”.

NOBODY LISTENED:

Her mother didn’t listen, “I´m busy dear, go out & play,”

So dragging her teddy behind her, she went out & away,

Daddy worked too hard, “One day we´ll have some fun,”

So outside she went sad & searched for her friend the sun,

Her grandparents had long gone, to heaven up high & above,

Praying to God, “Please hug them & tell them I send my love.”

Love was cruel, husband had left; he said she was far too dull,

Leaving her feeling as empty as a boat with a broken old hull,

Her daughter laughed, all her way to an exotic & faraway land,

So she buried her head low, down in pillows & very deep sand,

Her son found the woman of his dreams, turned & said “bye”,

She felt life had passed her by & asked of it, “Please tell me why?”

She dragged her loneliness with her, like teddy, through empty life,

With every slow plodding step, from babe to mother & caring wife,

Nobody was ever listening, or even caring to what she had to say,

So she made friends with the silent night & the pretty golden day,

And she knew that on this old earth, she was her best & only friend,

She thanked God above, that on herself she could always depend.

YEARNING:

I am here, yet in my mind I go tiptoeing,

To that far-off place in my yearning soul,

To wide green fields with farmers hoeing,

Where a meadow is home to sheep & foal.

Under sun, my heart wends its weary way,

To cascading waters upon cold grey stones,

To misty streams where otters leap & play,

And earth holds dear, my ancestor´s bones.

As I sit pondering, beneath tropical skies,

Colour reigns & sun laughs upon my face,

I seek that green land, beyond teary eyes,

Knowing, in ashes, I’ll return to that place.

IN THIS LAND:

In this land ruled by the kings of iron fists,

Where child demands & man commands,

This sad land, where women always obey,

Where the ancients are sorely missed by all,

And cowering pup is whipped & sadly yelps,

This land where over-worked donkeys bray,

Where nobody offers a hand to help the soul,

Where widow in mantilla kneels on bent knee,

And everyone prays to a God they cannot see,

This land where money yells in empty pockets,

Where the banker rules & the beggar drools,

And in bloody sand, tortured bulls sadly weep,

This brilliant land, of hot, searing, scorching sun,

Where the burning is of brains & sorry hearts,

Where grasping hands clasp & slowly tear apart.