When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.

Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say

There was a world, a world
Where there were trees, birds
Happy homes and rivers
There was a world, a world
For man, animals and little
Hopes smiling over hills
There was a world, a world
So real like the ones on your
Tablet screens and T-shirts
There was a world, a world
Where there were no masks
No protective coats and wars
There was a world, a world
Where children played with
Water, tree tops and berries
There was a world, a world
Without guns, atomic bombs
Volcanic eruptions and storms
There was a world, a world
Full of oxygen, live music
And men dancing on streets
There was a world, a world
That made little sense over
Colour, money and language
There was a world, a world
Where man fed each other
And slept under a safe roof
There was a world, a world
Humans needed love, hope
And shoulders to cry on
There was a world, a world
Where man loved each other
And  nature, his mother.