Song of love, twisted by welling darkness.

Vengeful art, practiced with vicious subtlety.

The softest lips whispered the hardest lies.

She exhaled an evocation of ethereal dreams,

Whose only prophecy was eternal sorrow.

Where the dead lie the flowers grow,
The trees shoot tall and the winds blow.
Resting in their eternal peace,
Memories live on and never cease.
Weathered stone and faded names,
At home, broken pictures in broken frames.
The woosh of an aeroplane flys overhead,
To honour their sacrifice and salute the dead.
For they have died so we might be free,
Lives lost inland and those at sea.
For we recall all that they gave,
As we whisper quiet prayers beside the grave.

rise early
mist the first murmurings of morning
and the blue
smudged by a finger
to a dusty half-purple
half-nectarine sky where the perfect
blot of post-Christmas sun welcomes us

commas of snow
like the night shedding its skin
a chill coating our throats
but each inhalation a gift
a lungful of life

Waiting for no-one it surges on
No pause for thought,
Or batting an eyelid,
Never generous. Almost gone.

The evidence is left upon your face
Though the eyes deny,
Chances not taken,
Regrets mount. We cry.

It doesn't cease but endures
It's reach is long,
Steadfast through the seasons,
Ticking on. Ticking on...