A mere illusion.
Mosaic shadowland in black and grey;
Yet in this silent world
Cottages stand, sunwashed,
Long after their demise.

Lured by the past
I wish to enter cool dark doorways;
To draw back faded curtains
And scent the wood-smoke
Within those secret walls.

Forgotten dandies
Watch from under crow-black stovepipe hats;
Memories of Waterloo
As fresh as Vietnam.
The Mutiny still unborn.

Moments after this
Stolen faded second, they turned away
Down Sheep Street to the 'Dog Inn';
For Porter and cold beef.
A clay pipe and cider.

Silent halted streets
****** back to vanished life and rural din,
The reek of horse and men
Now past recall. Lost
Moments. Gone forever.

While in her ghost garden,
Close by the gate and vanished red brick wall.
Anne Wheler, dressed in crinoline
And broad silk ribbons, keeps her
Rendezvous with my gaze.

To write a line which
Sits upon the page
Like a well set stone
Is hard.

And yet they come when
Least you think they might;
Forming in the mind
Like pearls

The smaller words which
Fit like tesserae,
Snug within their place,
Are best.

Polysyllables.
As that which sprawls above;
Bear no close study,
Tempters.

They'll not improve or
Save a clumsy line.
I've tried that trick
And failed.

The pleasure's that of
Craft - from pieces make
A new thing - to shape
And fit.