When worldly time for me has ceased,
No more to breath God's air,
Lay me to rest in Nature's palm,
In solemn, silent prayer.

Scatter my ashes in a leafy place,
Where I can rest content,
Where creatures wail my eulogy,
And birds sing my lament.

To sleep with folded wild flowers,
Beneath lush woodland trees,
And wake with yawning blossoms,
Stirred by the morning bees.

Fling my dust where fairies dance,
Lit by a moonlight beam,
Along the track that I oft' strolled,
In earshot of the stream.

Within the throb of Nature's pulse,
As I close o'er life's pages,
Sheltered from the Summer sun,
And safe from Winter's rages.

'Tis there that I shall be at home,
My earthly toils remiss,
Forever facing wondrous skies,
In pure eternal bliss.

Drawn to the privacy of the quiet beach,
And the deafening roar of the waves,
To the mangled shells, and seagull screech,
We surrendered to our bodies, like slaves.

For that seaside was our wild and secret love place,
With our toes we drew hearts in the shale,
A bunch of seaweed she smeared in my face,
I splashed water on her bare bosoms pale.

The sea spray bit cold on our naked skin,
As she teased and taunted so well,
Her magnetic curves how they drew me in,
Like the ocean I did seethe and swell.

Goose bumps crawled on our bodies entwined,
As the harsh wind caressed from the South,
We groped for heat from desires combined,
And the warm saline taste of our mouths.

The moonlight danced high as the sea did ebb,
Our spent bodies now bared to the sky,
The traces of our love play on the rippled sandy bed,
Not even the waves could deny.

We lay starkers on the strand, no madding crowds,
Still flirting in the naughty nip,
Our only company the shadows of the clouds,
And the drone of a distant ship.

Alas ! Our bliss was destined to fade,
Ne'er again to converge in the tide,
The moon no more a ****** to lust displayed,
When mad youths their pleasures not hide.

Memories now so vivid, I could nearly touch,
The tangles in her wild windswept hair,
Or taste those lips that I miss so much,
As across the barren beach I stare.

Oh Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, I plead,
Hand me your lyre from the Heavens above,
And I'll sing a lament of our broken Love,
The sorrow from open wounds I bleed.

Memories today all that's left to share,
A Love chastised, both from stringent schools,
We fled to the Forest that held no rules,
The forbidden fruit we longed to dare.

Lush with shade and endless green,
Naked we kissed against the Oak,
While only the Woodland creatures spoke,
Our secret safe, we would ne'er be seen.

She taunted strong, my hungry groan,
The rugged bark did dent our skin,
And I as hard as the Oak within,
Her welcome hand did guide me home.

We fell to the wild and ferny floor,
On a bed of trampled weeds to sin,
The sap tasted bitter on our green-stained skin,
Which fuelled our passion all the more.

Under Mother Natures watchful eye,
She fed her youthful ******* to me,
As we did taste our bodies free,
We hoped this Love would never die.

But the ravages of time to Love's disgust,
Have clouded the gold of our Forest moon,
Sweet Aphrodite please hold your tune,
Our cast iron Love, now decayed with rust.

                           ~~~

So varied are the hues of poetic pen,
With a multitude of exploding coloured ink,
In endless shades to choose from now, and then,
To set the writing mood, in which we sink.

Should I decide upon a nature write,
I must select just one of many greens,
To paint a woodland oil, in verse tonight,
Of lush green branches shading flowered scenes.

Humorous poems are best presented yellow,
The verses to be sunny, smiling bright,
This Irish poet not e'er a dour fellow,
To try extract a laugh from you, he might.

To pen dark verse, one must use darkest black,
Printed on a page of sombre grey,
The mood is set, no chance of stepping back,
The reader with sad tears, may have to pay.

Poems to my Love, are always delicate pink,
Verse from the heart, her eye to see words beat,
Fond lines penned madly now in perfumed ink,
Extracted from rose petals, for a treat.

****** verse scribed in pulsating red,
Throbbing, bulging blood to end in balm,
My pen grows hot with every word that's said,
Eventually burns to flames within my palm.

Finally if you poets e'er grace my home,
Feel free to take a seat, and ease your pains,
Relax at my bureau and pen a poem,
For it's ink not blood that flows inside our veins !