She wanders through the Labyrinth of thoughts, of dreams; of hopes, of fears.
A whisper on the winds of my imagination... to appear
unbidden; when I least expect her... murmuring her soft demand;
and she... a stern, and jealous Mistress; bending me to her command.

She, who is called... Muse.

From whence she came, I have no knowing... 'nor how long she may remain;
'nor then, can I guess her humour when she comes to me again.
Will she bring bright hope of love, or sadness of a love mislaid?
Or, bitterness of love confounded? Venom of a love betrayed?

She, who is called... Muse.

If bitterness, or venom, be it; then... in truth, I shall defy;
for that is not my way; not from my pen will thoughts, corrosive lie.
The path I seek is softer... gentler... love, as it was meant to be;
there is rhyme enough... and more; of selfish, shadowed misery

from She, whom they call... Muse.

But, for such defiance... then, her retribution will be swift;
tantalising thoughts... impossible to rhyme, will be her gift;
or, perhaps a sensual, honeyed web of thought, that can, but lead
to mangled couplets; ruptured rhymes... something, that I do not need

from She, they would call... Muse.

She is a stern, and Jealous Mistress; but in truth, she will return
after she has ransacked all the Labyrinth... resolved to learn
where it is, that lie the sweetest memories, safe-tucked away;
but these are not hers for the taking, in this complex game I play

with She, who is called... Muse.

She whispers on the winds of my imagination, all the while.
But, will it bring to those who read... soft memory?... A tear?... A smile?
A wistful smile, perhaps... for something lost, but still, sweet memory?
A smile of hope, for something, yet to come? Tears for what could not be?

This then, is She who is called... Muse.

How did you steal my heart away? What magic did you weave about
me, softly...
like the breath of spring gently cloaks the winter chill?
No warning of your soft approach; yet, I am lost; there is no doubt
my heart succumbed to your enchantment, and I know, it always will.

Your touch, so soft... invisible; as gentle, as an Angel's kiss,
that reached in, and caressed my heart to spark a flame that burns so bright.
It blinds me to all reasoned thought... to everything, except for this...
I am so very close to falling; you are such a sweet delight.

And, if I fall, then I am lost, forever; no thought of return
to what was once; the way would close, and no regret, were I with you;
held close in your heart, as you are held in mine; Oh, how I yearn
to hold you, and to share a love that could not wane... was always true.

How did you steal my heart away... finding where it softly hid?
The question doesn't really matter;
I'm just so very glad, you did.

The Moon is on the water and the wind is stirring in the trees.
The Willow leaves smile silver in the moon-glow, turning in the breeze.
The wispy Cirrus clouds are riding high... a veil of gossamer white;
a Moorhen chatters out there, somewhere; safely cloaked in velvet night.

I watch the silvered ripples as they tumble, tinkling in the stream;
a mood of wistful contemplation settles on me, it would seem.
I watch the moon's reflection in the water, mirrored shiveringly;
always moving, yet not moving... dancing through infinity.

I wonder what the moon has seen and heard, whilst resting, shimmering there?
Eavesdropping lovers' whispered dreams? Perhaps, heartbreak and black despair?
How many stories could she tell? how many secrets does she know?
Smiling up impassively, imprisoned in the watery flow.

I gaze up, and I watch the moon, serenely pale, and floating high;
and ponder the creative power of that old rock up in the sky.
The poetry... romantic connotations... myriad artistry;
for what she really is, she's done extremely well, it seems to me.

Considering the competition overshadowing her space,
from her Celestial elder sister, Mother Earth... so full of grace;
all azure blue, and green, and white... and beautiful; from pole to pole;
yet, only Cinderella Moon, it seems... can touch romantic souls.

I gaze back down into the water; musing this analogy.
Whimsical perhaps, but yes... it holds a certain truth for me.
Of "Harvest Earth," of "Earth-beams," or, of "Earth-light"... poets never write;
I wonder why?... and watch her sail, calm and serene, into the night.

Oh, sweet Lady; can you hear the whispered words soft-spun about
these close-versed couplets couched in gentle subterfuge... so, others doubt
if they have actually read what they think, they have seen... or have inferred
from what would seem a simple poem.  We alone, can read the words.

Oh, sweet Lady; can you feel the soft caress of gentle longing
woven through the very fabric of these words, each one belonging
to no-one but you; you have my thoughts... you have my heart; take care...
we must not lose the soft delight of this poetic Love Affair.

Oh, sweet Lady; in this world, we are unchained... we can be free
to whisper all the sweetest things that, in the real world, cannot be
anything, but hoped for; only then, in sad love.... unrequited.
Here, there can be no betrayal... faithfulness remains unblighted.

Oh, sweet Lady; do you feel the sensuous glide of thoughts begin
to gently touch your secret, inner feelings... does the warmth, therein
contained in whispered words of love all written, but, still from my lips...
gently stroke your mind, like velvet skin touched by soft fingertips?

Oh, sweet Lady; we can live forever... safe, within this place,
our words and thoughts become immortal; love, time just cannot erase.
We can never grow old down the drifting years, as others do...
The Poetry of love is ageless... it will still come shining through.

Oh, sweet Lady; if, but one, or two of our soft, heartfelt thoughts
are still remembered, down the years... perhaps, some poet, who has sought
the secret of the True Romantic... whispered dreams, still there, may spy;
and weave a gentle poem of a sweet romance t'wixt you, and I.

Beneath the Limestone edge of the escarpment called the Cotswold Hills
lies the market town of Stroud, which once, was home to diverse mills
producing cloth; for countless streams flow down from off the Wolds, so high,
and wool aplenty, thereabouts ... sheep country, far as meets the eye.
And, spread out like a starfish arms; five valleys all about, do spread
around the town; 'though, more a pentagram, some locals whisperingly said.
Vague talk of Witchery and Covens, Pagan rites ... black candles lit;
it is, indeed, a curious place; whatever is the truth of it.

And, should you take the second Northern valley... once the old Coach road
that ran from Bath to Worcester; in the dark of night, you need be bold.
By light of day, a pretty route that skirts the valley pleasingly
up into Slad; the birthplace of the Famous Author: Laurie Lee.
Cider with Rosie... you can almost feel the echoes, hereabout;
for time has almost passed this little village by, there is no doubt.
The woods, the meadows where he spent his childhood ... much the same, today;
but, this is window dressing; for the real tale is two miles away.

Further up the valley is a windswept, empty place... all gaunt;
thrusting out above the woods, as if, its nakedness to flaunt.
A wild, and lonely shoulder of the Wolds... where only grass will grow,
where once, two Coach-roads crossed each other; many, many years ago.
Perhaps, if you are sharp of eye, you may make out the traces, still,
of coach wheel ruts in overgrown, green lanes which time has not yet filled.
The modern road runs parallel to the old Bath-Worcester coaching run;
And this, is then... Bull's Cross; and now, this story really has begun.

For it is said, on certain nights, about the hour of Twelve Midnight,
with Bull's Cross silent as the grave... all bathed in leprous, pale moonlight;
particularly, on New Years Eve; if dread misfortune strikes your soul
you may well see the Bull's Cross coach all thundering down, out of control.
The coach, all silver-grey; the galloping horses... flaring... runaway;
the pistol crack of snapping harness; coachman crying... "Clear the way!"
and then, the sound of splintering shafts... the screams of passengers thrown down
upon the wind-bent wilderness; all scattered, dying all around.

Some old disaster lost in time; played out at midnight, certain nights...
and those who have not seen it, boast they have... and those who have, keep tight
their lips;
for it is said, the sighting of the spectral coach will lay
a curse upon those witnesses who let their loose tongues run away,
and babble of what they have seen... the moonlit, splintered wheels a-spin;
they turn chalk-white, their teeth fall out, they meet their death by trampling.
And, there is more; there is another phantom lurking in this place,
and if you meet him, you must never, ever look him in the face.

For just below Bull's Cross, there stands a wood... dank, yellow... overgrown,
known locally as Deadcombe Bottom; not a place to go alone.
And here, there is a cottage... tumbledown, and open to the skies,
deep in the wood; all hidden from the passing, curious, prying eyes.
For Bull's Cross is a jutting baldness all the villages can see;
a perfect place to raise a Gallows... so, a Gallows, there would be.
The cottage, then... was specially chosen as the Bull's Cross Hangman's home;
close to his place of work, yet hidden... somewhere, people did not roam.

He lived there with his son, and worked his trade; he was a skilful man.
Times were hard, and he was busy; nightly... felons to be hanged.
One stormy night... a routine summons... a shivering lad brought to his hand.
Used to working in the dark... the lad despatched... he paused to stand
and light his pipe;
the moon slipped out, and lit the gallows, pale and wan,
and, in the rain-soaked face that stared at him... the Hangman saw his son.
To his companions he said not a word... just turned, and walked away;
and in his cottage, on a hook, he hanged himself without delay.

There is, but one wall standing now... and in that wall, a great iron hook
blood-red with rust... the very same from which, his final step, he took.
Still dank and yellow is the wood... silent, bird-less; not a place
you would wander in by choice... walk quickly by... increase your pace.
For it is said, on stormy nights he wanders all about Bull's Cross
searching for his son... and, if you see his face, then you are lost.
Condemned to walk with him forever, upon that bleak and windswept rise...
I wouldn't walk up there at Midnight;
'nor would you... if you are wise.

The fly-blown, garish, neon advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning, in his hand; his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
And, hasn't called now, for close on a month... not since that dreadful night
he came home to an empty, cold apartment... and, no sign of her.
The letter... ominous, on the table; which he knew, one day, she'd write,
for, though they loved each other, he could always feel a shadow... there.

She wrote... there was no-one to blame; just that their love, they had outgrown,
and she had met somebody else; She could not stay... she had to leave.
To stay, would be to live a lie... he would be better on his own;
so he could find somebody else... a love, in which he could believe.
The letter burned into his brain. He read it once, he read it twice;
had everything been just a game?... the whisky bottle smiled at him.
He climbed inside to drown himself; his heart was cold... as cold as ice,
and, in the whisky's warm, bright kiss... his eyes, with helpless tears, did swim.

And, there he stayed, until the whisky bottle held no Golden smile,
and then, he stumbled to his bed... but, there would be no comfort there.
No familiar warmth, so soft... his sleepy senses, to beguile;
just a linger on the pillow of her sweetly perfumed hair.
And, so he lay there, in the darkness, until he could stand no more;
he wandered out into the night, to greet again his Golden friend.
Through the cold, and rain-swept streets; from seedy bar, to seedy bar...
knowing this would be his future; knowing this would never end.

The ******, lounging further down the bar, watched with voracious eyes...
slipping skirt a little higher; stocking tops eased into view.
Watching coldly from beneath her green eye-shadowed, brash disguise;
but, he scarcely glanced at her... a total waste of time... she knew.
And, time was money... so, she rose, and tottered out on spiky heels;
his Golden friend will understand... his Golden friend won't make him cry.
He swirls the ice cubes in his glass... his Golden friend knows how he feels;
he misses her... her warmth, her smile; It's not the ***... *** he can buy.

The fly-blown, garish neon, advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning in his hand... his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
He waves a banknote at the barman; same again... the bottle, too.
He gazes down into his glass, and contemplates his Golden friend.
His Golden friend will never leave... his Golden friend is always true.
Remember, then...
a broken heart will never quite completely mend.

Poetry is a curious thing; it has a power we cannot see
but only feel... perhaps, not even that; just sense, instinctively.
The words a poet uses, and the order in which they appear,
can mean all things to all people; you read in them what you desire.

Perhaps, you can see love, or longing; tears, or laughter... hope or fear;
some star-crossed tryst... some misty dream; it is a thing all poets share.
There are so many variations; weaving rhyme in different styles;
a Golden world, so full of promise... gentle smiles; or wistful sighs?

Do you want to soar above the mountains in the endless blue?
Do you want to wander mist-wreathed lands where, still, the Moonflowers grow?
Do you want a tale of unrequited love, soft drenched in tears;
half-lost, but half-remembered through the shadows of long drifting years?

Or, would you rather craft a subtle, perfect Sonnet for your sweet?
the quatrains merging elegant... the couplets rhyming, fair and neat.
A work of such sweet elegance... your lover's heart is in your hand;
these things are all here to be found in this poetic promised land.

This is where true magic lies within us all... no more... no less;
for, deep down... we are all Romantics; we all seek the soft caress
of fantasy... some sweet Idyll of tragic love, now lost in time;
these whispered dreams of captive hearts all bound in gently flowing rhyme.