Eve and Steve
love drinking sherry
getting merry so dose Mary
really scary, she has eyes for all the guys.

Jane told Wayne that Jim´s a pain
and then ran off with his mate Shane.

Gary is the one for Carrie,
the one she really wants to marry
and Doris who´s a florist really fancies Boris
whose older brother Norris
drives a nineteen sixties Morris.  

Now, Pat who lives in her own flat
has eyes for Jim because he´s slim
she really has a thing for him,
and her friend Sandie´s sister Mandy
is going out with a bloke called Randy,
whose friend is Wayne....Sandie´s latest flame.

Scary Mary longs for John who´s cousin
Peter is dating Rita, she´s Steve´s  youngest
sister, his older sister Pam is going to marry Sam
whose brother Terry loves drinking sherry............

The bowl filled with hot water,
the dishes and cutlery from lunch
await my attention;

But back then
in the days of sixties summers the
beaches beckoned

The glasses first
followed by the plates, careful not
to over-do the coarse green back
of the sponge on the china;

And us
hand in hand in our rolled up jeans
strolling where the sea meets sand

Knives followed by the forks followed
by the spoons and as I look out of the
window the martins fly to and fro
feeding their young;

I can still hear the noise of gulls
and the whooshing of
waves as we ran sideways up the
pebbles trying to avoid getting soaked

“Where are the clean tea towels” I ask
and you call out
“In the top draw on the right”

When I´ve finished this we´ll sit outside
with a glass of red;
Funny how our taste changes over the years,

in those days of sunshine
and sand in toes it would have been
Blue Nun or Mateus Rose
and the washing up
was probable the last thing on our minds...

We touched upon it briefly
in a moment passing swiftly
on a breeze so many years ago,

the words I whispered softly
drifted to you oh so gently
as the sun set on an ocean all aglow,

we were really young and carefree
we were that naive we could not see
that life would take and shake us to and fro,

those saffron days, those summer dreams
the plans we made alas it seems
had faded long before the autumns glow,

but at least we felt it briefly
for a moment that passed swiftly
on a breeze so many, many years ago...

Old photographs, five in all,
unknown faces in black and white,
a frayed and faded ribbon, the palest of greens
with blonde hair trapped tight within a knot,
coloured beads, and a stone with an hole in it,
probably picked up on some secluded beach
or romantic stroll.

Two ivory pegs, cribbage perhaps,
a silver locket and chain, hallmarked,
a faded fragile train ticket stating that the sum
of one shilling and sixpence had been duly paid,
where did she go on that day, I wonder.

A letter addressed to Emily from Sis, the
loveliest hand writing I think I have ever seen,
an art long gone, Sis is so sorry that she
could not attend Emily’s father’s funeral,
but sends her love.

Every item in this dusty box which had been
lovingly covered in a floral patterned material
must have held special memories
of treasured times for Emily.
I smile warmly, as I replace the lid,
keeping her secretes secret…..forever.

Looking down
I pull out the chair,
the two empty cups
still where they were left,

spoons on saucers,
granules of sugar spilt
all over the gingham cloth,
with a few drops of coffee;

I watch them leaving
arm in arm, smiling,
so in love;

The mess aside
I picked a good table,
shaded from the sun,

Café con leche por favor
I ask,
as the waiter clears away
the lovers conversation.

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.

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.

And now that death has found him
feel not cold towards his heart,
forget the words you never spoke
forget the years you grew apart;
See not contempt that closeness bred
recall those early loving days,
dwell not the times of stale and pain
´twas only life got in the way.

Sit at night beneath the stars
recall the twinkle in his eyes,
see the man that he once was
before the aged face and lines,
see him in his younger day
not the one that he became,
see the man that you first loved
before “life” got in the way.

Look and find that youthful smile
the smile that won your heart,
years of change had taken toll
but his love for you did not depart;
So now that death has found him
don´t despise what he became,
you altered him to suit yourself
so there´s only you to blame,

for he did not want to change.

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.

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.

A bugle sounds reveille
on another freezing morn,
boots are frozen solid
and the coldness bites to core,
grunts and groans of tied men
forcing eyes to see,
the razor stings and mess tins sing
for steaming dark brown tea.

Weapons cleaned and loaded,
breakfast, stomachs full,
then all line up in silence
ready for the whistles call,
one last read of letter
once more kiss the photograph,
a silent prayer to calm the nerves
and with mates, an empty laugh.

Another freezing morning
that was bound to take its toll
on the brave naive and frightened,
the lads that were too young to fall,
in foreign fields frost dusted
turned red with blood from those
who knew not what the fight was for,
same on both sides... I do suppose.

Going by
what people say
about being on nine
or in seventh,
I reckon
cloud ten
and eighth heaven
must be absolutely
****** awesome,

I reckon too
that the feeling
of thick as opposed
to "sheer" bliss
would be even more
awesome-er.

Faded flaked and peeling paint,
my colour once was vibrant
emerald green,
my letter box now seized with rust
when new was brass and gleamed.

My number it has long since gone
a pale green stain marks
where it was,
lying now with one rusted hinge
this once proud entrance way feels lost.

I stood tall to greet their visitors,
for sixty years or more
and now the house that I once fronted
will have no more guests
come through this door.