Come, let me take you by the hand; I'll lead you to a secret place
where dwells the hidden one who seldom feels the Sun upon his face.
Come tip-toe past dark memories that echo down these shadowy halls,
be not afraid... you will not stumble, I will catch you, should you fall.

Within this labyrinth of sorrow, strewn about with shattered dreams,
discover now, the secret one... for 'naught is ever as it seems.
The lost romantic, pierced by evils selfish cynics say and do;
His words of love quite out of fashion; used by all... meant by so few.

His woven words spun soft, and gentle have no place... cannot succeed,
in a world of subterfuge, mendacity, and naked greed.
What happened to the childhood truths once taught with patience, and, with care?
Shed carelessly, with scant remembrance; damage words cannot repair.

Remember then, the hidden one, who, in the darkness, must remain,
shackled to his empathy; he knows the sorrow and the pain;
and, turning back with eyes unseeing, snuffs the flame he strove to free;
his words... no more than sparrow's tears in a sea of brash cupidity.

The place is Gloucester City; I'm on foot patrol, Beat Number Five;
The time... 2-45am, the City dead; nothing alive.
Progressing through another lonely night-shift... not a soul around,
the dead streets echo to my footsteps; beyond that, the only sound
is the wind that whimpers through the narrow alleys, here and there;
I turn off Westgate Street, down into College Court... the thoroughfare
leading into College Green, where the great Cathedral lies.
The little passageway is shadowed; carefully, I cast my eyes
across the shop-doors... check the locks, shine my torch for better view;
then, by the The House of the Tailor of Gloucester... I walk beneath the arch into
College Green... the car park's silent... there in splendid majesty
towers the mighty stone Cathedral, into the night, in front of me.

My footsteps echo like the crack of doom upon the old flagstones
beneath the border of the trees that guard the crouching houses thrown
along the south side of the Upper Green, as I walk down to turn
into the precincts, skirting round the Great East Window; to discern
how many drunks and dossers I might find within this hallowed ground...
but as I pass the south transept... something makes me turn around.
There; by a small door, stands a cassocked figure in the shadowy light...
who lifts his hand and calls to me...
"Goodnight, my son; be safe, this night."
I study him; he's sixty-ish; he wears a beard... his face is thin;
As I make to answer him, he turns away and walks back in
through the door into the great Cathedral, and there, echoes, plain...
the screak of ancient hinges, and the rattle of the keys again...
being turned...

... how very odd. I'd better check all is secure...
it's very late for Godly works; and so, I carefully check the door.
Nothing moves; and so, I take up my patrol once more, around
the outer east end of the massive nave, where, in the past, I've found
the dead-beats, and the drunks, and dossers slumped against the buttressed wall...
but tonight, it's silent as the grave... there's no-one here at all.
I quietly walk on down the path towards the ruined infirmary...
a single, standing stretch of arched wall; where my footsteps hollowly
echo in the silence as I move on down to Miller's Green...
almost as if I'm being followed... but there's nothing to be seen.
But, even if there was... the shadows here are dark, with no street lights,
except the odd, wall-mounted lantern glowing dimly in the night.

This really is a creepy place at night; of that, there's little doubt.
I walk on past the end-wall arch and the echo following me, fades out.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I pass the Little Cloister House;
The ancient, timbered, stepped-up gables loom... all's quiet as a mouse...
when suddenly... a crash and clatter...
WHAT THE ******* WAS THAT?
I freeze... and then, a dark shape dashes out... it's just a sodding cat
rummaging the waste-bins; and I breath again... that was a fright!
Greenly eyeing me, the cat slinks off beyond the pool of light
thrown by the streetlamp on the corner. Miller's Green is dark and still;
before me looms the shadowed, vaulted passageway through which I will
walk back into College Green where, to my right, the Almonry
stands hard by St Mary's Gate; once, entrance to the Monastery...

that stood, in medieval times; here; I resume patrol again...
I pass beneath the gateway's ribbed arch, stepping into Three ***** Lane.
There before me, in St Mary's Square... the ornate Monument
to martyred Bishop John Hooper of Gloucester... recreant Protestant;
who never would recant, and thus, for heresy... at length, condemned
by ****** Mary; the, then Catholic Queen; would meet his gruesome end
by being burned alive at this same spot... where now, the only sound
is the mournful whimper of the wind, all softly spinning round
the intricate, carved stonework, as he gazes down towards the gate
as if to say... "Move on, my son; guard The Queen's Peace... it's getting late."
And so, I walk up Three ***** Lane, and turn back into Westgate Street;
patrolling up towards the City Centre, where the four Beats meet.

No sign of Tim on Southgate Three Beat... he must be down by the quay...
Ah!... there's Mike across on Four Beat... Hey! He's flashed his torch at me...
Hurry on up to The Cross... What's up?... He laughs; "I'm bored to hell...
it's quiet as a ****** grave... what's your patch like?... come on, do tell."
I smile; "It's much the same as yours... the only really big event
was... a **** cat raiding bins... d'you think that's "Loitering with Intent?"
Better not to mention what I think I saw in College Green...
it would rather blow the "Street-cred," and... I don't want to be seen
as twitchy... but I'll check it out this afternoon; you never know...
"OK" he says, "I'll see you later." and he turns away, to go
back down Eastgate Street, and I continue on my lonely Beat;
shining torchlight into doorways, down the length of Northgate Street.

After I had had some sleep, I came back down to College Green,
and entering the Great Cathedral, told the Verger what I'd seen;
asking him if all was well... he looked at me most curiously
then motioned I should follow him along the nave, to where would be...
the door; but when I looked, I could see nothing but a solid wall...
where the door should be... indeed, there was no sign of door at all.
He said there once had been a doorway here, three hundred years ago,
where they gave charity to beggars; but times change, alas... and so
the door was walled up solidly in Cotswold stone; three full feet wide...
the outer door was left in place; so as not to spoil the southern side
of the outer prospect of this Gothic architectural jewel...
I stood; mouth wide in disbelief... staring like some mindless fool.

He watched my face, and then he grinned; "What you saw son, there is no doubt;
was Bishop Hooper... at this time of year he often walks about
his Bishopric. You aren't the first young Copper... and won't be the last
to meet with Bishop Hooper at this time of year when you go past
the south transept as you patrol your patch, on down to Miller's Green;
the old, false door in the south-side nave... that's usually where he's seen
early in the mornings of the first few day of February...
always from that same old door, around the anniversary
of his death down on St Mary's Square, in 1555;
we've seen him once or twice in here... almost as though he's still alive.
Almost as if he's checking up to make sure all is safe and well
with Diocese, and Dean and Chapter... and not least... his Cathedral.

Coppers come and Coppers go... and Gloucester changes down the years;
So does the Policing; no more foot patrols... just area cars.
College green is gated now... and locked; so they cruise quietly past;
and Bishop Hooper, it would seem, has found his peaceful rest at last.
No hollow echoeing footsteps approaching from St. Michael's Gate;
No Constable on foot patrol... no need for him to quietly wait
at the old, false door to bid the Guardian of The Peace goodnight
as he patrols his beat... expecting drunks, and not a creepy fright!
Yes; Gloucester, it has changed since I patrolled those streets so long ago...
but College Green is much the same; it hasn't really changed, although
the big, old trees are pollarded... the shadows are not quite so deep...
but still... the atmosphere is here... and certainly, the chilly creep
and shiver, as his Monument looms, dark beyond St Mary's Gate...
and the wind gives plaintive moan in requiem to religious hate.

Tantalising... fantasising...
the pencil waits, in lingering bliss
above the ****** paper spread impatient for its graphite kiss.
Which path to follow?
Tugging heart-strings? Or a gentle, wistful smile?
the words... a soft caress, with which, the Ladies' memories to beguile?
Of loves that are... or might have been?
Of dreams, that may yet come to be?
of lovers whispering in the night; breathless, in their intimacy?


Tantalising... fantasising...
eyes slip slowly down the page;
not quite flowered to Womanhood... impatient now, to come of age.
"Will it be like that for me? Will he whisper words like these?
Will we be happy?... will he love me?
Oh, l hope so... Oh, yes... please."
She dreams the dreams, the poets spin of love;
her innocence... so sweet;
for, in her sunlit world... no broken hearts;
not there... do lovers cheat.


Tantalising... fantasising...
thinking, "Oh, that's rather sweet;
so gentle and romantic; perhaps, tonight...
someone, I'll meet,
who's really special... thinks, like that; warm and kind; a gentle kiss...
and then, perhaps... is that the time?
Oh... does my *** look big in this?
Is my make-up picture-perfect? Should I wear a shorter skirt?
A touch of perfume in my cleavage?
How much to drink?... How much to flirt?"


Tantalising... fantasising...
just skip-reading down the screen;
kids in bed, the ironing done; ten minutes off to sit and dream.
The old man snoring in the armchair... lose herself in Cyberspace;
when was that young, and handsome, **** love of hers...
by him, replaced?
She smiles, and looks back to the screen... a tiny poem, sad and sweet,
scrolling up... then... suddenly, it bites... and her heart skips a beat.
The memories come flooding back... those carefree days when first they met...
tear-drops hang like diamonds on her lashes... she has no regrets.


Tantalising... fantasising...
smiling as she reads the rhymes
that tumble from the poet's pen, and march in neatly metered lines...
proclaiming what?... the hopes and dreams for love you found,
and later lost?
"I've been there too," she sadly thinks,
"but, was all really worth the cost?"
"Of course it was... I'm no spring chicken... but, I still know how to fly;
and that young man just down the road... I've seen him giving me the eye.
I think I'll call his bluff tonight...
I'll wear the blue dress; it's quite slimming;
those big brown eyes... those snaky hips...
Oh, please... let him like older women!"


Tantalising... fantasising...
peering closely at the screen;
characters a little blurry; eyesight... perhaps, not so keen
as it was, so long ago; she was Eighteen... before the War...
and young men really spoke these words that she reads now,
alas... no more.
She was a beauty... many suitors... many lovers, all long gone;
her memories... the sepia photos, neatly tied with pink ribbon.
Flying jackets, MG drop-heads; tea rooms that they used to know...
A smile; shut down the Laptop... and remember, in the firelight glow.


Tantalising... fantasising...
pencil blunted, paper covered
with more gently woven musings... where the thoughts
have briefly hovered
like two sated lovers quietly bathing in the afterglow;
another magic journey down the waterfall all poets know.
Hoping that the words spun out, will strike a chord... a heart-string, tug...
enfold you in a soft embrace... tender, smiling... warm and snug
in the knowledge that, out there, Romantics always will be found,
striving to, perhaps, shine warmth upon such sad thoughts that abound.

When I fashion words and thoughts, and weave them into lucid rhyme,
they say to me, "Why do you bother?... it's all just a waste of time.
There's nothing in it for you; it's all done for free, with no reward."
They miss the point completely, in their grey, and avaricious world.

I find it sad... this crass indifference to this portal to the thoughts,
from whence, spring such diverse confections, tantalising mind and heart.
Enticing those, who keep emotions captive... out of others' sight;
to blossom... like a fragile bloom unfolding in the warm sunlight.

I use the English language in the fashion it was taught to me.
That wondrous journey of discovery through the Oxford Dictionary.
A set of tools, unrivalled, to one who plies a Poet's trait;
so many words... so many ways, a thought one can elaborate.

The style, and subject of my rhymes; by some, it's true... are deemed to be
a little maudlin; perhaps dated... incorrect, politically.
Whilst outwardly, so worldly wise; inside... and hidden, there exists
in me, a hopeless, true romantic... an iron glove - but, a velvet fist.

The thoughts and dreams behind the words... I hope, reach out, and touch your mind;
and gently soft... caress emotions; thus, I hope that you may find
your pathway to forgotten memories... loves held secret and discreet;
if this is true, the circle of my poem then becomes complete.

And that is, in my world at least; what poetry is all about;
seduction by imagination... no regrets, or pain, or doubt.
Except in words upon the page; ephemeral... no deep wants or needs;
the sensual stroking of the senses; making love with words... not deeds.

Or.... What Love is really all about...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Dictionary definition really doesn't help us much;
"Warm liking, or affection;"
no... not quite; it lacks a certain touch
of magic...
but, when you consider it's the concept, deeply thought
out by some dusty academic; little wonder it is fraught
with mediocrity,
but, then... about the passion, and the pain;
the tightening throat, the trembling doubt;
his love of books... not quite the same.

I think, a closer definition...if, indeed, there's one at all,
is
Love, is God's Banana skin; encounter it...
you slip... you fall.
And, He must have a sense of humour; think of all the stupid things
we humans say and do, when love engulfs us with luxuriant wings.
I mean... when first in love, how our brain softens, and we cannot think
or speak, in normal conversation... into baby-talk, we sink.
The child-like actions... tickling, nibbling;
feeling we could almost fly;
Yes, you can almost hear the laughter echoing down from up on high.

Love has a different set of rules... a much more tolerant mental state;
no matter, if your lover's body fails what fashion now dictates...
or accidentally breaking wind whilst making love...
Calamity!
Collapsing in each others arms... both giggling, uncontrollably.
Blind to those annoying habits we all share, it must be said;
Underwear dropped in the corner...
biscuit crumbs left in the bed;
toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle...
leaving up the toilet seat;
my last ****** razor has been used by her to shave her legs...
how sweet!

Perhaps, your definition strives to reach Romantic's heady feel
for love,
but, this is what you get... if you are fortunate;
it's real consideration for your needs; warm contentment, company.
Hearts and minds in step, together...
and that's good enough for me.
The poems and the songs of love, though charming, just cannot begin
to weave the magic found...
when you've just stepped on God's Banana Skin.

I wish that I could write a poem... words that would intrigue your heart;
no trite clichés... like 'Moon' and 'June'...
but, where on earth then, do I start?
The words I prospect from the heart... a soft, seductive rhapsody,
on paper... just don't read that way, although I weave them carefully.

I wish that I could craft some verse to tug the heartstrings every time;
smooth and silky... sweet perfection; flawless meter... perfect rhyme.
But as I rummage round all the romantic bric-a-brac inside...
and thoughts come tumbling out, and change to words; it cannot be denied...

they whisper down the page... not making sense... refusing to comply
with all the rules real poets follow; very strange... I wonder why?
Perhaps, I'm not a real poet... bereft of creativity...
perhaps, it is all froth and whimsy that I weave... not poetry.

But then, the rigid, classical approach is not what I seek, here;
the Cinquains and the Quatrains... bound with rules by which they must adhere.
I cannot pigeon-hole the thoughts, the dreams... that just is not the way
the hopeless, lost romantic, works...
at least, not this one... not today.

The trouble is; the heart-thoughts,and the mind-thoughts seem to disagree,
the heart says, "This is what I feel... yes, this is what she means to me."
The mind-thoughts say... "No, that's too flowery... far too smooth and syrupy"...
What the hell... I'll listen to my heart...
those thoughts won't mislead me.

****! I've dropped the thread... forgot the chain of thought... the plot, mislaid;
all this ******-twaddle snuffed out one more bright hope...
I'm afraid
tonight is not the night... perhaps, tomorrow I can make a start
on a pretty little poem, that might just
intrigue your heart.

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.

Sitting here, I muse and ponder; seeking truths... what will I find
as I wander through the echoes of the windmills of my mind?
My thoughts of you go round and round... ever circling; ever there...
It seems that you have found a weakness... this love thing just isn't fair.
For, what was once, just sweet flirtation... double meanings... small asides,
has turned unnoticed, into something else... however much it hides
behind an act quite unconvincing, that my mind attempts to tell
to my heart; a foolish ploy... because my heart knows me too well.

And, much as I would like to think l have some measure of control
of this enchanting situation; sadly, just myself... I fool;
half-heartedly believing I am not in love; it's too absurd...
my heart; soft, sweet, and treacherous, whispers "Wrong again! .... now, heed the words
you hear me speak... don't listen to your mind, it's really out of touch;
so choked with sensibility and logic; fool! you really think too much.
Heed me. I'm the only one you really should be listening to...
for, l'm the one who ends up broken... if, at length, it all falls through."

So, who do I believe? The angel, or the devil?... I'm not sure;
both whispering soft, into my ear; the windmills turn, and turn once more...
round and round; the circling thoughts now pull me deeper, deeper down
into this web of doubt; if my hopes fail, then I shall surely drown.
But then, the windmills turn again... the answer was there, from the start...
the truth of it comes shining through...
the mind is banished... for the heart.

The place that I live in the heart of the Shires; they call it God's country; this County of mine.
With rolling green pastures, and wind-swept high Wolds all scattered with sheep, and forgotten by time.
A child could not wish for a happier place to play, and to grow... to learn about living;
to romp in the wheatfields on bright summer days, and, rather than take... find more pleasure in giving.

This is how I was taught in those innocent days where all were accepted... and none preconceived;
but, then I grew up and those values were crushed; but, I still hold to the truths I believed.
Why are there more words used for hatred, and envy, than ever there are used for tolerance, and joy?
Don't reach for the Prozac... just walk through my memories... experience that, which I had as a boy.

My Grandfather taught me that we are all equal...  in birth, life, and death we are all just the same.
"Shrouds have no pockets"... he said, as I listened, "It's all down to you... and how you play the game.
And what you will do with the time you are given is how they'll remember you, boy... have no fears."
and, ******* his pipe; he said, "Always remember, to just leave them smiling... and not shedding tears."

Now and again, I return to those high Wolds, and wander through meadows where I used to play;
remembering words that my Grandfather taught me... remembering wheatfields on hot summer days.
I hope that I've followed the truths that he taught me... his countryman morals that never efface;
and, if by his words, you should find some contentment... perhaps, this world might be a much nicer place.

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.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words are couched in subtle style... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it wishful thinking? They are just some lines of poetry.
I read the words again, and yet... I know my heart cannot be wise.
There may be nothing there at all; and yet, my heart insistently
whispers...
read between the lines. She wouldn't use those words, unless
She has opened up her heart for you... it's true; can you not see?
But this would be a bold conceit... for such a thing to second-guess.

And, why should She choose me, alone... amongst so many willing hearts
arrayed before Her there, to choose? I am no better than the rest,
except, perhaps, in weaving words... such pretty pictures to impart;
but, they are only words; although, in truth; I think, if I were pressed;
I would confess that they were more than that... they are soft whisperings
my heart tells me I should reveal... though seeming better not professed
at all, for fear of gently tugging at Her fragile, sweet heartstrings
laying forth the heart-truths She might wish were better not expressed.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words read like a Lovers Kiss... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it just my wishful thinking? And, is it just poetry?
I read the lines again, and wonder if my heart, soft tells me lies.
I cannot read the truth as by her subtle thoughts, I am caressed;
a tiny hint perhaps, just there? And further on... that phrase, likewise.
Is there a whisper here for me? A few soft words that might suggest
something I might hope to find... on which a fragile dream relies.

A fragile dream of whispered words soft penned, perhaps, not just for me;
what makes me think it could be so?... such bold conceit is most unwise.
And yet... I feel there's something there; the softest, sweetest melody
I scarcely hear at all; a whisper softly cloaked, beyond my eyes.
Does my heart deceive me? Is there nothing there? Perhaps, it's true.
Little here to base a Love affair upon... it's too absurd;
and yet... from less than this; down through the ages, Great Romances grew;
and Love will always find a way... and not least; through a whispered word.

Don't look at me.
Enveloped in your steady gaze, drowning, drowning in your eyes
whilst willpower flees as swift as sand slips through the fingers of the hand;
crumbling scruples ebb and wane, exquisite trap; sprung once again...

Don't smile at me.
I cannot tolerate your warmth; to sense, to feel... your thoughts to touch.
All instinct tells me I am lost; one soft half-smile... and all is dust.
I cling to morals; play the rules, if I succeed I surely lose...

How I could have loved you.

Don't talk to me.
During conversations shared, is there some message in your eyes?
I search for some unspoken word, perhaps imagined... never heard.
What would you say if I reveal the hidden thoughts my heart conceals?...

How I could have loved you.

Don't touch me.
l can withstand your word and gaze if I am brave; if I am strong.
But, your caress burns deep within, I long to touch your velvet skin,
soft, warm and rounded... sweet delight to taste your lips; to hold you tight...

How I could have loved you.

Don't ignore me.
The glance, smile, word; and touch denied may break my heart... but not my soul.
But, disregard has no respite... the chill caress I cannot fight.
Without you, words no longer rhyme, confused and pointless; lost in time...

How I could have loved you.

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.