A known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters,
by road’s shoulder perhaps guide

to openly weep a slippery *****
of once having known someone’s art
yet lay hold naught of their heart

eternally flowing river of kindnesses
shall meander, thoughts ever caress
even when words and faces now drift

a familiar feeling remains here still
years invested this regenerating gift
lines and verse ever ascend that hill

once nimble fingers
grasp at lithe reeds
as they slip and dance
in a breeze’s lullaby
ever present companions
as days turn into nights

The mailbox is usually empty
What with the P.O. Box and
social media, emails, SMS
all so many differing ways
to keep ourselves in touch.
But this day’s walk down the
drive had changed the day!
A notice arrived, in paper
from hospital’s renal unit.
This path may lead clear
or perhaps to dialysis or
even a kidney transplant.
So look out, Tomorrow
quite surely here we come.

fictionalising that pain
only in writer’s quill remain
inkwell daily welling over
one that never need run dry
on pristine sheets shall ever cry
there a field blanketed in clover
under pregnant sky contain
descends yon seasonal rain

leeward of a lean-to hill
iambic cadence thrill
amber flecked lemonade
morsels don pleated frill
bring on tend’rest brocade
while at windward dale
wizened cheeks go pale

all have gone far and wide
there, a fair distance away
where no eye spy nor stray
only hindsight dare confide
even sproutlings coy in Spring
no fresh joys will they bring
still from Sun, buds cannot hide

just like open sunlit skies above
which kept our days ever bright
whose bare-all gaze shoved us
to sanctuary from blistering glare

we always kept our shadows in sight

tents and those world tree ash boughs
carried us to roman candles of night
matsuri: our own non-roman holiday --
summer may be gone but these remain