I will be there for you in the days that follow
Do not worry, my son
For when you take each child's hand
You're holding mine too.


We'll walk in the park in the Summer
I will be there, my son
Life is a repeating pattern of smiles
I am always your Mum.

Love Mum x

He peered from the bushes, half afraid,
our first cautious explorer.
Dreaming of fatter animals,
having no thought of factory man.

The Green Man lost his spirit
in our carvings and engravings,
conjured images of everyman.

The interrior was dark and dusty,
a second-hand treasury for searchers.
Deeply breathing the particulate air,
I squeezed through to my secret back room.

Care of J.M. Dent and Everyman,
there for sixpence, at pocket money price,
an unexplored world could be had.
Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson.

Men seek to test their metal,
heading for the sea, exploring
experience's distant depths,
plunder from the sea.

Different dangers from onshore.
Diffferent challenges. Naked
and adaptable, learning
ruthless lessons, chancing the main.

It glows warm on her breast, polished
symbol of her life attachments,
subtly marking loving passion,
needing no flashing sparkling zest.

Once the scent of ancient pine,
gooey, enticing insect trap,
transluscent shroud for their remains,
since washed ashore between those
sheer, crumbling, shortbread cliffs.

The Moon and I go way back.
She's always been there for me;
Forever watching over thee;
Lighting the way - even in the darkest of nights.
She protects me and keeps me from the sights
Of those that may want to do me harm.
She assures me that I'm safe, when embraced by her arm.
The rays of her love I forever want to keep.
She watches over me when I sleep,
And even during the day, when the sun is shining bright,
I know that she is still there, just out of sight.

You see me.
I can't breathe.
I'm suffocating.
You just stand there
And watch.
You hold a life line
But you refuse
To help me.
So don't breathe.
Don't breathe.
You're stealing my air.
My air.

Remembering old friends
From old photographs
Memories we must never forget
For they changed us
And made us
Into who we are today

There's something quite poetic
In the way in which a bee dies.
Once it's stung its victim,
It's almost as though it can't take
That it has caused somebody else pain.
So it dies.
Just like that.