The day started with birdsong
somewhere in the far distance
of my sleepy half conscious state.

Trying hard to pull myself from this
deep slumber into the new day
is a fight I think I maybe loosing.

I yawn and stretch my way onto
the terrace half blinded by the morning
sunshine but gloved in its warmth.

The hills look so beautiful and lush
dotted with white houses and cortijos
randomly nestled between the olive trees.

The Martins are following red leader
one in their amazing aerobatics around the
red tiled rooftops and terracotta chimneys.

The sky is a blue that Dulux blues can
only dream of being and the absence of
clouds only adds to the days beauty.

My eyes follow a buzzing wasp that is
searching for whatever it is that will make
his day, and I sip my tea enjoying the sun.

The day continues with bird song, sunshine
and that... it´s great to be alive feeling,
think I´ll put it all into words.

I stroll the shores of washed up dreams
where waves of indecision scream,
driftwood flotsam lost forever
torn and scattered no more tethered.

Despairing depths of darkness beckon
cast away from bounds of reason,
set adrift from all that mattered
floating lost a soul so shattered.

Washed up dreams and sunken hopes
now barely finding ways to cope,
I stroll the shores of indecision
searching signs of life’s lost wisdom.

What sweeter day
than to walk the way
of rolling summer hills,

where lavender scents
your every step and white
blossoms linger still,

what sweeter sound than
the running stream where
ripples splash and spray,

and melodies of birdsong
travel with you all the way.

It was all for the love of poetry
his love of the rhyming word,
in the library he searched hopefully
for sonnets and poems by the bard.

He could see the book he wanted
it was high up on the shelf,
it was the biggest book he spotted
the complete works of the bard himself.

There were no steps or stools at hand
no way to reach his treasured find,
so he jumped and tried to grab the band
that was hanging from its spine.

He pulled the band with all his might
the giant book it fell like lead,  
and the complete works of Shakespeare
came down and landed on his head.

Yes! Shakespeare killed my best friend
he brought him to his end,
not with sword or dagger
but with every word he ever penned.