When the fishing boats arrive after days lost at sea ,
when the eagle is left stranded on a rock ,
with torn wings so it cannot fly ,
then prunes itself untill it is left to die .

When days of my comfort are no use to me ,
when loves great highways comes to an end .

Then how needless a friend ,
that finds me in rocks but makes not a sound ,
then better for him I can’t be found .

Better for me the rook finds its nest ,
than seeks out myself untill I find no rest .
then pecks away to feast on my flesh .

Better for it to find fish in the seas than to  beak  at  my brawn than    to bother me .
For its hollow bones gave it wings to fly ,
not flap around my head ,
untill exhausted falls to the ground to die .

Yet all these days I sit here alone ,
without what man might call a home .
A hermit watching the waves roll into one ,
then gently set to the west when my day is done .

Imagine if I was King ?
KinG  of what ?
King of glory and of grace ?
For that would only seal my fate .
King of love or understanding ?
that would only be for the immortals that are above ,
on whispy clouds we cannot see ,
unless we give our hearts to thee !

King of what then you might ask ?
Perhaps I should choose a lowlier task ?

One that no. One would want to seige
King of words that do not rhyme ?
but that would be a waste of time .
A King of Poetry ?
then I could charm all the beautiful ladies with word and deed .
For  that poets would in the night do away with me ,
with cloaks and daggers with which quill and ink spill ,
beneath my feet .
Dead in a pool of ink .

Perhaps a more lowly state ,
where other Kings won’t besiege my walls of fate .
Perhaps a King of fools ,
and diamond rings ,
and knowing what misery brings .
A table for two with Duck and a nice glass of  vinderloo ,
and a ring for you ,
just to see what you would do ? .

An Edwardian lady ,
with a letter to write ,
she clings to it dearly .
For with fine perfume. to write for , it is sented with a kiss from above ,
and smudged in lipstick and all of her love .

For This secret she holds unto her chest to her is divine ,
for it passes through the ages of time .
All wrapped up in string ,
and richest perfume ,
as she walks down the street with her head in the air ,
With whispers of love to guide her there .
To plump and powder and preserve her pout ,
the freshening air on her face ,
makes her the envy of every gentleman’s glancing embrace .

For she cannot wait to post her letter ,
for tomorrow it will be too late ,
the sooner the better ,

Just in time before she is wed ,
to land on the mat of his Park Lane address ,
for that letter to arrive in the letter box
of her love ,
Scented by the richest perfume .
One last chance before the day to say ,
how much I am looking forward to giving a barrog to my love .

🌹
An Edwardian gent sits down to write ,
for it is his last  chance to do what is right .
To send a final letter before the mail man leaves ,
to his beloved .
He tells of how his heart starts to bleed ,
as the quill of his pen moves to every beat of his heart ,
a thud thud thud as his thoughts run away ,
to tomorrow when he will kiss his bride and say ,
“ Now I have given my heart away ,
I wait for the day I can give a cwtch  ( Kutch ) to my wife ,
for .
“ Our silky cocoon has opened to colours so bright ,
Oranges and blues dazzled by the suns beaming light ,
adorned forever ,
In sweet twilight.
Dwi  Wedi  cwympo. ,
for I have fallen head over heels in love with you .

Serth the red skies they give not a stick or a stone ,
that loves great harbour should build us a home .

Where magpies mock and steal ,
a ring through my window went ,
on the beek of a bird ,
all black and white ,
without lament .

That ring that I had on.my dresser would ,
Stick us together like concrete and glue.

It was a ring that without words that read ,
with all my heart I will worship you .
But  now the bird has stolen it instead .

So will the skies O blessed thing ,
before I die ever return my ring ?

It gavest us pleasures like ,
walking together in the rain ,
but as red skies are above ,
and silver lightning strikes ,
tis my shutters I close to hide me away at night .

And if that magpie should ever return , to bar and bolt ,
It shall not take ,
the love in my heart ,
for it is with that that I wed ,
not symbols of gold or cotton or thread !
But with ever lasting sweetness and joy ,
the bird can’t take ,
or mend or do ,
or sow together me and you .
that which is in my heart I employ ,
to do such a task to stitch us together ,
untill  our  words do not rhyme.

O  for silver  then shall I wait untill dawn ?
For what did I see on my newly mowed lawn ?
A heart made of silver a locket with a picture of you ,
with a red sky sunrise ,
that’s forever thinking of you .

How could you love me ,
when I know nothing of love ?
You’re  sweet smelling fragrance ,
when to kindle you’re flame ,
slowly burning yet always the same .

How could you love me if I. Could  tear you ,
Limb from limb for ,
if you ever knew ,
the chains my heart holds down ,
to save me from sin .


For your gifts are more precious than silver or gold ,
a candel so bright ,
a love that isn’t cold .

A warm hug when I’m asleep in bed ,
a cup of coffee ,
when nothing needs to be said .

How you could love me when I cannot love you ,
and yet you stand by me ,
When I never wanted you ?

For that is all I know and it’s what I call home .
But in silence you awake me ,
for it is in silence you breath .
You’re breath that excites when ever you are near .
Laced in perfume you pull at my cords .
For if death dos’nt excite ,
then the loser takes all .

How could you love me any tenderly than this ?
For one day you shall awake me to be greeted by
a  kiss .

The pace of life is mournful I stumble and I fall ,
like a new born baby ,
no one hears my call. .
I cry out at night to those who think me dead ,
and listen to those voices I hear laughing in my head .
Though it might not be audible the laughter is just as real ,
as those that come in the dead of night ,
are of those of us who steal .

The pace of life is frightening,
the poet heals my soul,
like Christ a long lost friend I knew a long time ago .
And O the pace at which my friends travel ,
have left me alone on this weary road ,
when everyone has travelled ,
they left their heavy load .

My pace of life. Is now steady
pray lead me along the shore ,
where ever he might take me ,
however fleeting life might be .
A life well travelled passing ruins on my way ,
ahead of me might lay castles or palaces of clay ?

Or even if they are humble shacks or caves where rock cliffs fall ,
at least you are right beside me ,
though you are not Lord of all !
For my heart is still the same as when I first met you ,
I pray one day you might change it ,
so I can follow you .