Such bliss of delights:
those sacred nights
in the all together.
How we exposed  
ourselves indeed.
We took, we gave;
swept away by Eros
on sensual tides of
ardour’s ebb and flow.

I, surging upwards,
onward, inwards,
plunging down into
desire’s *******
foaming waves.
You, urging me on,
drawing me deep
into intimate inlets
of Venus’s ectasies.

TOBIAS

Whatever the weather
calm, windy or cool
cats and dogs
I fall for you..
dew drenched
like lightening
like rain storms  
snow showers
hail splashed
sleet slashed
blazing sunshine.
tanga untangled..
..so climactically.

TOBIAS

There is an empty place
in my heart: one thing
is all I need you to do,
it is to fill that space
by inserting into it
your love.

TOBIAS

When you wish to pray to God
find a church: enter, seek a
quiet place, talk to God.
You may even feel
a  Call from God...

...though unlikely
to be received
on your mobile.

For the sake of
quiet for others
turn off your phone.

However, If you wish
to see God outside
the church - send
a text  while
you are driving.

Tobias

Now I was young and easy. Led
entranced under plum tree blossoms
drifting along the sloping drive
to white-washed walled Stud Farm.
This ecstasy of being cool pig-pink
sunk happy in a mud brown wallow.
    
Then I was bold and carefree,
working among the barns
busy about the happy yard
on the farm that was home.
Young once only, in my kingdom
as Time let me live my dreams.
    
It carried me over and over again
in daytime walking or running,
it was lovely, the sweet scents:
fragrant hay field’s cut grass
and herbage fully sun dried.

Or, I pedalled in evenings
led by bicycle-dynamo-beamed
light under the stars to sleep.
Above me the barn owls were
claiming skies of swallows clear.
Coppice hooting in preludes,
there bats about soon flitted
where  tiny glow worms flickered.

Then to dawn awake: the farm,
mist-shrouded as a roamer white
dew cloaked, returning to hear
****’s crowing from hen coops
black cawing crows in the trees.

Glimpsing the same clear sky
changed from yesterday
into today’s white and blue.
The same sun but born again.
The distant church bells ringing.

Nothing I cared for more
than pink piglets new born,
just meadow-birthed lambs
and black and white calves
that would take up my time:
to hold me to the farm forever
released from orphanage hold.

Oh! I was so young and easy.
In the mercy of its means,
Time held me as I was flying
while I threw off captive
chains - at last unshackled - free.

Tobias

Weary of this town of peopled pain
I set my path towards the country plain
to wander there, to gaze, to think alone
to hear again  the woodland's drone

Lost in meadow, field and glade
I sought the calm of dappled shade
Sometime, I crossed a log-made bridge
Or, viewed a valley from fir-toothed ridge

So still the air - I heard the bluebell's ******
and caught a hidden thrush's eye atwinkle
as from thorn hedged cover with a thrill
silence welcomed its quavering trill.

Half across an old wind-weathered stile
I paused to gaze upon the scene awhile:
"Who could have made this?" Was my thought.
"What breath breathed this? What hands this wrought?"

Before me stretched a wonderous natural land
un designed by humankind - some primordial hand
Who once this world's existence stipulated
then taking elements, atoms, molecules them manipulated.

Into myriad mists of time has humankind dissolved
bearing a triple question unresolved:
How did We come? Why? Where Goest We?
If I knew the answers - would few believe me?

Called by larks from thoughts of life's meaning
I saw a sparkling brook down a valley streaming
Silvery-voiced it beckoned - come and slake
your thirst, come quaff amid my bubbling wake.

I, deep in the babbling water's bottom spied
a bright round pebble washed and pied:
it invited - perchance you'll take me
to London in a place called Stepney.

In my boiling mouth it found a place
cooling the bulge it made upon my face.
Refreshed in spirit - I made my homeward way
pebble-tongued across the new mown hay.

Tobias.

What was that haunting sound
outside in the gathering gloom?
Its mournful tones rang round
the pale moonlit silent  room.
No spectre, ghost nor ghoul,
but only a wandering owl
that had lately left its lair
to sit high in an oak tree bare
of leaves. While from nearby,
feathers unruffled wide of eye,
it cast a shadow from its head,
as I lay only half-asleep in bed.
Counting each and every breath.
Its presence “a harbinger of death”
often in fables told and legendary.
Was there an omen in its elegy?
For this listener, blanketed prone
in fearful darkness, still as stone.

TOBIAS