Walk with me if you dare,
keep up with me if you can.

No rush of the bulls
filled these narrow cobbled streets
where tradition and
songs sounded over pinxos,
and stories of San-Fermin.

Deer loved one

Please bear with me,
owl bee with ewe as soon as possum bull.
Rhino that things have been on paws lately
bat remember I toad you;
Toucan always find me some plaice warm in your heart
if I'm not lion there beside you.
Giraffe nothing to fear, no one can break the lynx we've made.
Mine is a love that'll never panda, narwhal it
hound any other sole but jaws and yours alone.

You're the porpoise I wake up every morning.
Wren all otter things are bleak, you're my ray of sunshine.
You let minnow weevil always have each other.
With you, newt time passes but stops still.

Love you with vole of my heart
ant i'll never desert you.
Until hen Gobi good

Yours truly
...

Dear kid you are the picture
of heart on well worn sleeve.
You oiled every wave of
raw emotion
and etched it on your own face.

Each time you draw a tear
the cascades fill your sorry eyes.
Far cry from masterpiece,
or symphony
but your truest portrait caught in time.

Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.

...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.

Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.

If you're not satisfied;
do not be willing
to be pacified.

Where did the last leaves go?
when the winter crept;
weren't they blanketed by the snow
or were they feasted upon by frost?
Either way I've lost track of them.

If I turn over a new leaf,
am I neglecting the ground work
i laid the past ones out on?
Would I be dishonouring those
that have fallen?
will everything up to this point
now lose its relevance, because
time permits its time to drop old
blueprints for fresh leaves?

What if i'm not ready?
What if I still value the progression
of the elder ones?
What if despite seeing those
old designs bleed amber and red
I can still see green?

Times, seasons and things may change
but even from the beginning
of a calendar year;
What is old can be new again,
Those old leaves becoming new ones,
every time I remember to grow
my ambitions with the ideas
ingrained and well rooted within
old desires.
Those are I hope; the last new leaves
I'll ever have to turn.