You had the talk of old
and were a gleaner
who cautioned,
before the maelstrom
consumed you.
I recall you were once doused
with lime dust
to scream down your walls,
having dread of the tree-lines
whose opaquity fenced you in
like the rest of the then World.

I had always wanted to buy Martha Marzipan
and to see her encased Vermilion diary
so she could heal beneath.
But she only succeeded  
in filling her emptiness
with joyful Psalm songs
at a daffodil festival

I always had envisaged lying with her
in fields of oxeye daises
under the cerulean blue of an early summer sky.
My seeming wishes were granted,
until she proceeded to  purloin such paradise
by cutting her hair
and daubing ash on her wrist.
For she had previously lit a candle
for her years made wise,
believing only women suffered pain
and I now realised,  no one could buy her.

I love your supposed fraility
it appeals to me,
in your smile theres
a beckoning hint of marigolds,
your eyes are demure  
yet they catapult
waterfalls of Lisianthuses.
Your rivulet urges a suddenness
to speak your name
as though you have drawn me
I truly wonder who is  lost.

Everybody said we were erstwhile, rather quaint
and could never pay our back rent ?
You listen to the silence of seashells
I grow colchicums for nurseries.
I often inquired what was your favourite animal
You always replied "Ursine"
something to do with Bears ?
Perhaps we should voyage to Newfoundland
and see them face to face,
recalling the word "Reseverez Vite"
Would that be any quicker ?
and dry your eyes
I love talking to you in the cyan light.
Often I thought a cup of Guayacanera
could tide our differences.

In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.

A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty  stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.

I could never be Raglan the  knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored  Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.