The red chair sits at the table
the black one is dining there too
their repast is of pencils and paper
the odd flower the used glass a *****

they seem to converse I can't hear it
their animated chatter so low
swallowed by night its dark shutters
as the sun sets and dims down the light

it is evening they'll be there tomorrow
their banter the rolling of wheels
in time with the squeak of the door
but when we're gone they'll be there no more

I caught your spirit in a rainbow one day
and with it I painted your likeness in my heart
the temperature of the colours
synchronised with the beat
we dreamed we'd never meet due to circumstance
now far away I sense you look my way
as if your soul were nearer to my side
your words unspoken sing to me inside.

Strange music
from the wayside shrine
wind
the wind at prayer
'tis in the mind
creative brain
mankind 

belief in devils
gods and kings
all kinds of things
mankind

dare devil deeds
and sudden wars
misunderstandings
mankind

polluted forests
human waste
fills all the waterways
rots vegetation
blind
mankind

dreamed Utopias
when our earth is one
soon to be gone
mankind                                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th May 2013.

I walked barefoot onto the roofs of the village 
treading on the white shaped stepping stones 
across the sea of daytime into the distance
where the sky melds with the earth in grey mist 
a fur coat ground of huddled bushes covered in snow 
with twigs standing out like signposts to the unknown 

bright specks of yellow light mark the centre of the way 
the dark forms of fir trees accompany me uncertain of direction 
lost among the houses in man's patch of loam 
a crazed puzzle following no rhyme or reason  
created at random by the movements of animals 
this hamlet in its own valley here in the map of the world                               

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd February 2016

I hear the wind 
I hear Wales whispering
its cool fresh air seduces my memory
touches my sentiments
lulls my troubles entertains

pictures long lying 
in archives of my mind reappear 
enact snapshots of happenings 
both happy and sad 
high on a hill 
where I spoke alone with my dad 

such brush of things 
from decades gone before 
knock on the doors of the now 
becoming part of it somehow                  7th March 2015

Day she dawns a distant blue
mixes with the lamp
becomes a purple hue
this days water colour
bathes itself in early year
not perfumed washes
only that of musk-like scented snow
its face is open wide from hill to hill
stretched out across the sky
to fit our village lying still
this february morning
this february dim
as mist dissipates
and sunday is led in

Margaret Ann Waddicor 21st February 2016