Our love became unthroned ,
all because of you .
Yes  you the one I hold with all my heart ,
for you didn’t  love what we had  known.

I would chisel out of granite ,
with my bare hands what we had left aside ,
from an apple to a heart ,
and take a peek at what’s inside .

Yet what we had was it for real ,
or built on fibreglass ?
For our train at Canfranc station awaits ,
the last to ever leave ,
the billow of smoke ,
this monster breaths ,
it’s last .
it’s whistle slowly fades ,
the doors are slammed shut ,
the clock still ticks ,
my windows down ,
and my heart is out of luck .

A tear rolls down my cheek ,
it’s choked in soot ,
misunderstood,
my love for you was insane ,
and now you have gone ,
and left me alone ,
with Only love to blame .

I picked a rose bud for you ,
I found it on a rose bed ,
it is not dead .
But  if you water it ,
and give it room to grow ,
it will blosom into something you don’t know .
For its buds will one day open ,
perhaps when you are curled up in bed ,
and you will think of me when I have gone ,
and all the things I said .

Butterflies fell silent to the ground ,
to a backdrop of fire and billowing smoke all around ,
to each one a widow mourns ,
to each one a new day dawns .


For on this day we started to plan ,
to count the cost ,
to laugh and dance again .
Not to look into deaths face and wonder why ?
O tyrant that stalked our foreign shores ,
that goose stepped through once peaceful lands ,
we put up arms against thee did we stand .

The tyrany from which we were saved ,
yet we still remember those who found nothing but a grave ,
and for those who were forced to dig their own ,
a memorial stone .

And those brave fighters above the skies who risked their lives ,
to what cost ?
Our freedom and liberty .

For every widow and every child ,
for every life destroyed ,
for every Jew who died ,
for every sacrifice .

For every Nobel cause ,
for every song birds song ,
for the day light ,
and blue skies ,
and church bells rung .
and every bunting and ballon strung .
This glorious day was won ,
In fields of butterflies.

Today has gone ,
we lived it well ,
with all its sorrows ,
we can live to amend .

And so a poem lead to one two and three .
and I said hello .
For now today is over ,
and we must all learn to write again .

And so it’s been four years since I said hello ,
and my poems I write you love to follow me there .

“ Darling lets take a trip to the moon ,
you and I in a paddle boat with stars tied together with string ,
cords of love .”  

“ But what if we don’t make it back ,
and the earth is just a faraway sphere ,
suspended in the atmosphere?

And what if there are no carriages back ,
or the coach man gets hijacked ?
Should we try again ?
what if our balloon should burst ,
or lose its way in the clouds ,
past the earth ?

For only then will we know what it is to love ,
who to throw over board when times get tough ?
When our two paper boats float together side by side ,
not twisted or turned by the tide .
Just floating together hand in hand.

But earth was never meant for us ,
for our ballon fell out of the skies ,
for our carriage never made it to Rome .

But my love for you never wavered or died ,
I just called it suicide .”

My Aunty Jane once possessed a cuckoo clock ,
as two little boys we watched it chime ,
holding our ice creams ,
bought for fifty pence .
I forgot about the panda cars and aunts cups of tea ,
and for a moment the cuckoo struck ,
it struck for me .

Cuckoo,
Cuckoo it sang with all its might ,
gracefully.
And  pritty soon the dancing girls came out ,
they turned and turned untill Jack came too .

And so I was sent to some far away place ,
with long green grass and meadows grazed ,
and where my little sister was nowhere to be seen ,
somewhere hiding in the apple green .

A long pole were girls went round ,
and didn’t stop ,
they wore masks to hide their faces ,
but they took me to far away places ,
playing hide and seek in the apple yard .


And still round and around they went ,
such was their contempt ,
then much to my lament ,
as i tried to leave ,

they drew me in ,
untill their childish games began .
My ice cream now was on the floor .

The  cuckoo clock chimed once more ,
my mummy said “ what a mess you have made “ .

Home I went wothout tea or cake ,
and sent to bed ,
oh for pity’s sake !
My sister walked in slammed the door ,
with Berlinda in hand and ,
with a smiling face said
“ you won’t see you’re toys no more “ .

The steps to the museum were many ,
you helped me climb the stairs .
Before my eyes ,
behind every glass frame you had placed every living ***** of me .

You bought a program which you called art ?
A wooden chair .

Before  me lied exhibit number one .
Burnt out ,
torchered ,
bleeding ,
dying ,
I saw my heart ,
in a frame ,
In front of me .

For it was there in a dungeon you left me ,
with nothing but stale bread to eat ,
you hung you’re axe of judgement O me .
For What ?

For it was deaths daughter of the crimson lip ,
that had touched my lips .
A traitor ? Not I ,
A herotic maybe ?
For her words were like flowing rivers eastwards towards the sea.
And her chambers  had  a soft fluffy bed .

Angels hold locks and keys ,
they hover above my head ,
a jailers cart you ride with horse and whip ,
With me clinging to iron bars inside ,
with chains upon my heels.

Oh butterfly where are you’re butter cups ?
Where is you’re lavender wine ?

As we left the museum the doors were bolted shut ,
and the evenings light caught the roof tops of a red sunset ,
forever frozen in time .
As if two thousand lovers prayed .
Could this be our lasting memory,
our final serenade ?