I  lean  my  cycle  against  the  shed
And  make  for  the  door ­ lowering  my  head

Driving  sleet  and  rain  and  wind.
Bites ­ my  face  as  I  let  myself  in.

0utside  the  trees  like  gh­ostly  shapes.
Are  tossing  and  heaving  right  across  space.
­
I  see  the  master  approaching  now.
Ducking  and  weaving  to­  avoid  a  tree  bough.

It,s  pretty  hopeless  today  he  says­.
Follow  me  without  delay.

We  walk  to  the  big  house,  I ­ cannot  win.
He  pushes  open  the  big  door  and  takes  me  i­n.
I,ve  got  you  a  painting  job,  he  says.
These  gentry  fo­lk  they  have  strange  ways.

Well I,m  a  gardener  rain  or  shine  
I  pray  each  night  for  th­e  weather  to  be  kind.  

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere  UK  2016­.

I'm  in  the  room  in  which  she  slept.
With  a  pool  of  tea­rs  she  wept.

I  find  a  letter  she  left  for  me.
its  a  l­etter  I  really  don't  want  to  see.

she'll  only  want  to  say  good­bye.
Which  almost  certain  will  make  me  cry

I,ll  put  the ­ letter  safe  away.
To  read  upon  some  future  day.

When  th­e  memory's  diminished  in  my  soul.
And  her  memory  fading  ­old.

Keith  Wilson  Windermere  UK  2016.

I  lie  peacefully  in  Iquez  Military  Cemetery.
Near  Arras  N­orthern  France

They  say  I  was  a  very  remarkable  soldier.­
From  the  First  World  War.

I  was  born  in  Brighton  Engla­nd.
And  later  joined  a  Yorkshire  regiment.

So  it  was  str­ange  that  I  had  to  die.
in  a  Scottish  regiment.

Never  m­ind  those  days  are
now  long  gone

Keith  Wilson  Windermere ­ UK  2016.

I love my little garden, Lord
Which you have given to me
I thank you for this haven
Where you can set me free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seed
And for you to bless the pretty birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson
Windermere, UK 2016

there is no sanctity
in the way you caress my face
although i always convince myself there is.
it's kind of like religion in that way:
all of the words
and thoughts
and actions
that created us
and linked us
are probably
fabricated lies.
and yet, i still look to you
as if you are a font of holy water
inside of a church,
as if your contents
were blessed
by some higher being.
i'm constantly getting drunk
hoping that maybe this wine
will turn into the blood of christ
or the blood of you
but it doesn't,
and i just get more drunk
and less whole.
it's a pity, really,
that i continue
to be so pious
and so faithful
to you, to god
when the only thing
the two of you really have in common
is you both love to let me down.

i walk on stilts
so no one can tell
how small you make me feel
does that make sense?
not everything makes sense
it doesn’t have to
you never did
and what i feel for you never does
i keep smashing our picture frames
and letting myself get cut on the glass
‘cause i’m not ready to clean up the shards
i don’t seem to be ready for anything
it’s been two months
since i’ve heard you sleep talk
and i swear silence
has never felt louder
now at night
i can't ever fall asleep
without wondering
how small her hands are
compared to yours
and if they’re enough for you to hold onto
i wonder how soft her lips are
and if you cringe
when she leans in for a kiss
sometimes i wonder
if i saw you in a grocery store one day
if we would make small talk
i wonder if i would want to punch your face
or caress it
i think i knew
that loving you
was a death wish
i guess i just didn’t realize that
you would refuse
to write the eulogy
or even show up
to the ******* funeral