Kiss Me, kiss me
sweet lips of the orange
For I am lost in your grove.
I listen hard
to the tale of the tangerine
blossom.
I see mackerels zooming
across a flavoured sky.
Shadows and thorns
lay dry
and crickets play to
unheard melody.
At noon, the bees sleep
irridescent feathers keep
Silence is a trail
a sticky sweet trail
I want more.
Kiss me, kiss me
release me from this cage
Let me fly, fly away
for a lost in the grove
and I want more.

Wherever I go
I am always chasing the sun
Always chasing happiness

No matter how far I stretch my hands

It’s always
just
a little bit
Out of reach

In your heart
I see fire
I see gold
I see stories gone untold

In your eyes
I see secrets
I see lies
I see everything you despise

In your mind
I see anger
I see love
I see all the things you’ve ever dreamed of

I see everything that you are
I see everything you want
I see everything
Except me

Spinning like a ball of thread
trapped under a table and
one end winding endlessly
around the infinity of time.
The other being strangled
against its will, time has no end.
Sometimes words are not enough
but enough has been said to cause chaos
amongst those it really matters to.
Therefore the simple answer is to be quiet,
hold one's tongue, mutter nothing,
speak less than before, but no, not you.
Sometimes too many words spoil the cook's wrath.
Get a knife and shorten the thread is the key to all of this.
I hear someone saying what the hell does all this mean.
It means sometimes words are too much, just a  hug will do.

Catkins wave the winter goodbye
Sticky little buds rest for a while
before opening themselves to the world
next to the tea rose and chamomile.
Primroses and violets
line the hedges sparkling lime
waiitng for the lilacs and pansies
in the heat of summertime.
Blue **** and the Jenny Wren
bob excitedly across the wall
With moss in its cracks
and spiders at nightfall.
Pecking for grubs in gaps
searching the the odd meal
finding bits and bobs and
a scrap of old orange peel.
The blackbird proudly presents
her newly hatched eggs in the nest
with a whilstle to die for
in her black shiny Sunday best.
Blossom like pink sugar lies on twigs
on the Apple Tree and the old pear.
one swift blow of the north wind
and that will soon disappear.
Spring is a promise of warm weather
of sunny evenings in the deck chair
There is no other season like it
and nothing can ever compare.

It weeps
Its petals fall
in heaps
by a wall.
Swept in a pile
Its petals combine
just for a while
just a short time.
A loving aroma
lingers
from over
the fingers
of its owner.
Cometh the hour
it is the time
for the death of a flower.