Eternally joined
Two flowing together,
become one.

Stream becomes Ocean.
Clouds rise.

And somewhere on a distant hillside
I am falling
once again
with you.

A low sun striking through the trees,
casts bar-code patterns,
spindly birch, stout sycamore,
ford the air across the path,
scattering themselves,
mottled images in a peaty burn
where fallen leaves,
streams of golden pennies
chased by blood-red hands,
confront the sky
sunk beneath.

Fish swim through mud coloured clouds,
brown fish in brown water,
but I have seen you on a clearer day
without the dirty wash
imposed on you by storms,
refracting rainbow shimmers
my eye almost caught,
saw you fly, meeting swallows,
crossing the barrier of two worlds
with ease.

I still see you, cloudless
beauty untroubled, undiminished
by the year's decay.

You swim in all our muddied depths,
shrouded by the torments
sinking us beneath our own surfaces
where clarity is thickened
by the colour of our fears,
but when air stills
in the warmth of a benevolent sun,
you fly, arching skyward
in half-glimpsed silent brilliance.

You are all our souls.

Summer dawn whispers
pales eastern stars sighing
on the air
the year turns.

Wednesday Isn't Baking Day Anymore.

Remember my steak and kidney?
You always liked them best, you said,
Looked forward to Wednesdays.
Your little pie girl, you called me.
I can't recall the reason ...
it was always baking day, Wednesday,
regulated life ... gas mark seven.
Habit? Leftovers to be used up?
So long ago, so many years,
memories scrimped and saved.
If I could have them in a pie,
one slice a day to eat,
I'd be living forever to finish it.

One potato, four ounces of steak, minced,
a French Fancy from the baker's, tea-time treat.
I still look up at half-past five
but it's been a long time since
the pastry-warm kitchen opened its door,
pie-crust gold, to welcome you.
Never mastered the art of pies for one.
I looked in there the other day.
The oven's full of dust, you'd never think!
Where's it all come from?
I'll be here again tomorrow.
Dust to dust. They'll put me in a pie,
one day.

Black rook scratching,
stabbing at black plastic
scattering the leftovers,
our hidden lives.
Cabbage stalks, carcasses,
polystyrene packages,
personal-care containers,
meals half-eaten,
hygienic wrappers
only slightly bloodied.

Scavenging your living
exposing our remains,
secrets of our privacy
meticulously tied
for intimate concealment,
for anonymous disposal,
naked on the pavement
in rustling tatters,
kicked into the gutter
by strangers passing.

Black rook scratching scavenging your living,
stabbing at black plastic exposing our remains,
scattering the leftover secrets of our privacy.
Our hidden lives meticulously tied.
Cabbage stalks, carcasses for anonymous disposal,
personal-care containers naked on the pavement.
Meals half-eaten in rustling tatters,
hygienic wrappers, kicked into the gutter.
Only slightly bloodied by strangers passing.

Count them,
number carefully
dawns, rainbows, sunsets,
cherry blossoms,
sweet-scented May.
Too few, the Golden Days,
count them.
Where are they gone?
Slipped away?

Pause then.
take time to make time,
beauty beyond price
or value.
Don't throw away
silences, long moments.
Note them,
memories to
share today.

You sleep
the night is mine
for dreaming
the day has no time
to spare.

Oh! The Changes.
Strange how Nature re-arranges
all our lives on Love, a whim,
such bright attractions soon grow dim
as we all know
but still we follow Nature's flow,
still seeking an Eternal Truth,
that in a state of Love lies Youth
and Youth is Beauty, now, my Lover,
make me Beautiful,
forever.

This poem is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

I whisper your name
in Indian clouds to the sky.

Showers of satin light
wash moonwards.

The stars answer me
distant through my senses
echoing
and your arms close.

Night cocoons me
gently.

This poem is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

If you can dream
and in the dreaming hold your vision,
allow yourself belief,
be not afraid
All you imagine can be made reality.
Choose from your dreams
with wisdom what in life to hold
and having chosen
carefully
never let your passion for the dream
grow cold.

The card 'Dream', as seen at the top of this lens, is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

A few poems born from simple observations in public places ...

I see the shades of time across your face
And hear its march against the wall,
I watch its shadowy fingers trace
More shapes, and then erase
Them all.

The innocent outline of the past,
Beneath the shadow of the pen                           
Dipped in experience' murky glass,                           
Is hid, an inky mask                           
Is drawn.                           

Oh, spirits of the earth which grew,
your charms embodied in this brew,
your mirth and merriment aglow
welcome us in from Winter's snow.

A greeting from the landlord's dog,
the lively crackle from the logs,
already is the scene prepared
for natter and for laughter sgared.

Friends seeking shelter from the gale
gather around the barrel of ale,
while Geordie's collie by the door
sleeps fast as his master decides ... one more.

At the end of a day of honest toil
what better reward for a son of the soil
than a glass of the best as his eye roves
to the lass at the fireside, his fantasy loves.

If only he were fifty years younger.
Oh, imps of the barrel display your wonder.
Sparkling eyes fall on his face, years fade,
oh, spirits, a fire in his bosom you've laid.

But Geordie's a character known in the bar
to all the young lasses as 'dear old Granpa'.
It seems he came with the fixtures and fittings
like 'sober' May-Ann over there with her knitting.

We all still guess what the garment will be
and how many years 'til its finish we see
for the stitches May-Ann's best known to provide
are the sort constant laughter brings to your sides.

My eyes glide around the room with ease
'til the landlord calls out 'Time gentlemen please'
and into the snow our merriment pours
in a flood of friends from the open doors.

And old Geordie's dog sees him up the road home
where in dreams as a young man his heart ever roams.
His auld wife awaiting her rover's return
tells him 'one of these days you'll wake drowned in the burn.

And she sets on the table beside his old chair
his favourite tankard with his favourite beer.
The thatch on the roof may be covered with snow
but the hearth and the hearts hold a wonderful glow.

It's the Halloween night, trick or treat for the children
we knock on your door just for fun
in the hope you might give us an apple or sweets,
a cake or a big sticky bun.
You can laugh at the vampires and devils and witches
but mind that you don't get a fright
from the ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties
and things that go bump in the night.

Fishing on the River Spey,
hoping salmon come their way,
clothed in green, assorted men
wish tight lines on the banks again.
A nip of whisky warms the blood
when sitting by the Spey in flood,
a nip in the air ... and one nip more,
what an excuse this fishing's for.

All along our River now,
fishing rods in homage bow,
they pray for a salmon of such size
their tales may never be called lies
but none could ever match, they say,
that elusive 'one that got away'.
The whisky ta'en against the cold
has tainted their vision a wee bit, I scold.

Life's a Beach

In foam-kissed sand, a glint, a treasure hint,
Pebbles carried from the hills to mix with shells,
Sea-gems ebb and flow, between my toes.
Each new tide may leave behind that precious find
And time is almost out of reach - on my beach.
Where does the water meet the land?
Deep in my heart - you understand.

Each of the first 5 lines is inscribed on the reverse of one of five sand Art Cards I have for sale on eBid.net, lines 6 and 7 are on the reverse of a similar Art Card which will remain in my possession.