My Muse, she’s flown I know not where
I sit here tearing out my hair,
And why this need to write a word?
It isn’t mad it’s just absurd.

And yet, and yet, despite it all
I think my thoughts might still enthral.
If only I could set them down
Instead of coddling with my frown.

But Muse why did you go away
To leave my life in disarray?
What happened that upset you so?
What did I do to make you go?

Caesar’s Ghost

Last night I spoke with Caesar's ghost.
We both had had our fill of wine.
But then the ******* made a boast:
How his blokes would have beaten mine.

Now, a General I have never been.
Whilst saying that reluctantly,
I could not argue what he had seen.
Thus, had to think most carefully.

Therefore, I spoke of contact drills,
Of duty weeks and other thrills.
And of the things that I had seen
Tales of what I once had been.

But carefully, not beating breast,
For after all He was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.

But talk, why not where I have been?
Am I ashamed of what I have seen?
Or, I am asking, is it wrong
To beat one's chest, to sing one's song?

That man of Caesar's who jumped ship
With Eagle held in calloused grip.
Inspiring witnesses to roar,
Then wade with him to Britain's shore.

Is he so different? Or might I say
To Caesar, “come round here and have a look
At all these men so brave today.
Would you have put them in your book?”

No. Really what I meant to say
To Caesar was that on the day
He launched his men through thick and thin
It was because he meant those men to win.

Whereas in our bold day and age
No matter who might shout and rage
We do not do that anymore.
We will fight, but not to win the war.

Which is why I left the swine,
Came back to Earth, peered at my wine.
He knew, thus his boasting leers.
I knew he knew, thus my shame and these my tears.

On Rosemead Road, my morning’s walk,
A hill that’s far too steep for talk
Or mumbling, grumbling, so I climb
In silence; and to make my time
I shorten step, I pump my arms,
Now’s not the time for social charms.
Nor acting as if on the stage.
This time’s for beating off old age.

When your muscles are starting to let you down,
When your hearing what’s not being said,
When the staircase at home turns your smile to a frown
When the shopping fills you with dread;

When kids use words that you don’t understand,
When on trains and buses you’re offered a seat,
When you feel that your life’s getting quite out of hand
When you fear the dark in the street;

When people ignore the advice that you give,
When the young deign not to notice you,
When every thought sours the way that you live,
When you can’t see the point of the things that you do;

When it’s all too hard to comprehend,
When there seems no point to even try,
When all you want is to grasp that end
When its finally time for you to die.

My mum used to pause her reading now and then.
Rustle the paper. Give a sigh.
Then, looking over her glasses to us kids at play,
“I don’t know what this World is coming to”
She’d say.

Of course, we never used to listen.
What child ever did or does?
Which probably explains the reason why mums still say
I don’t know what the World is coming to
Today.

I mean, Black Lives Matter, of course they do.
And Social Distancing, it ain’t much fun.
But gracious me, with all that stuff on social media, eh?
I don’t know what the World is coming to
Today.

Tap, pause; tap, pause; tap, pause.
A lonely sound which echoes round an ancient hall.
And to its beat In single file emerge a King, as well the Princess Royal,
My lords of York and then of Sussex; peers of the realm, all duty bound
To take their places, which by ceremoniously doing thus evinces
Such enduring continuity when its viewed - that vigil of the princes.

The Royal Standard drapes the coffin
There in which the late Queen lies
Lions, rampart, passant guardant,
And the harp of Ireland, blue;
Scarlet, yellow, such bright colours;
Jewelled the crown which sits there too.

And in the coffin ‘neath that glory
Lies our Queen now stiff, now cold.
Three score years and ten her story,
Three score years and ten which queue
From Southwark Park to Lambeth Bridge,
Just once more their Queen to view.

Just once more their Queen to view,
Patient, waiting through the night.
All walks of life to whisper through
This hall built by the Conqueror’s son.
Mute might it stand yet shout so loud
Of Britain’s past and of its history proud.

Tap, pause; tap, pause; tap, pause.
A lonely sound which echoes round the ancient hall.
And to its beat In single file emerge a King, as well the Princess Royal,
My lords of York and then of Sussex; peers of the realm, all duty bound
To take their places, which by ceremoniously doing thus evinces
That enduring continuity when its viewed - the vigil of the princes.

Those glinting, scintillating, cascading, droplets 
Rippling the surface of my garden pond,
Are either reaching up or curtsying down.
It all depends, you see, on the Sun’s bright smile, 
Or on its shaded frown.