The rain always comes from Wales
and the river tern flows fast,
we're told 1066 started it all
the Castle and promulgated plantation design
the rise and  fall
time and time again.

The  rivulet carries your dreams
as will the  cherry  blossom,
an eddy of  hope will  serenade
before a certain loss shorns your patience,
of  a  love lost
and to  realise  its only  channel is  a seashell
the  sound  before  the  rivulet
where  once  you  were the  liege
but  the  coarse fisherman's daughter
left with the  whittle of a voyage
can only  laugh at  the  serenity of  your  suggestion
the assumption behind  your  dream

Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing  poverty, melted candles
for  6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.

Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train, 
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the  wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.

I cannot see her being a troubadour
there's too much work to be done,
she only hangs around the fringes
lacking  that inner feel,
once she sang the Worlds Requiem
but her interpretation lacked punch
had she the wherewithal needed?
Her jaded baggage indeterminate now
lugs her capered turn.

Bathed in fields of  hummingbirds
an elderdown of  spring  purveys
weaves nexus  to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing  a  symphony  of  resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.

Watching shooting stars pull and wane,
barbed hope fences us in
wailing  against wilted hands,
easy to scorn the universe
by conjuring the moons scythe
to chide daylight,
unwisely burdened with a sigh
a thankless enmity
strips the hidden away .