Your wife is dead

Black heart, brute male who lay his mistress on the still warm bed. No conscience, no shame, to Sylvia still wed
And She fragile, burning with pain, fingers numb with cold
Your wife is dead, his lover said

The snowing streets, the phone box calls
The no one there, the closing walls
And She fragile takes her life
Your wife is dead his lover said

Black heart, brute male who takes his mistress to his sweet wife’s bed unmade
And lets her tend the babes where Sylvia laid
Cook them food where earlier lay her head
Your wife is dead his lover said

JG 14/1/18

The dark waltz

I love the dark waltz - deliciously midnight
The Phantom, the opera, the dark lair
the gothic, the mystery, the moonlight
The ethereal spirit of night air
I love the sensual, the star crossed young lovers
The tragic, the dreamer, the doomed
Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Sylvia Plath
Great poets that I have consumed
I love Tchaikovsky, Odette and Odile
Carmen by Bizet, Miss Saigon, Les Mis
The music, the poetry that make my heart feel
Nothing inspires such as this
Spinning me round to the beautiful sound
Of the dark waltz into the abyss

26.12.18 JG

Cold the white waters cascading
Hard the glass jewels of ice
Glint in the sun with no warmth
Winter
Not yet ready to melt

My tears the white waters cascading
My teardrops glass jewels of ice
No warmth to melt or to break them
Frozen
Not yet ready to move on.

Under the blue jacaranda that swayed in the soft spring breeze
I breathed in the scent of her lavender blossoms, recalling the moment in dreams
Before me were rows of her sisters lining the old town streets
Ringing their bell flowers, calling me in - my blue jacaranda trees

In the gardens were flowers and trees of the world, exploding with colours in glorious hues
Lit up by coral trees’ fire like glow, all through the city where ever you’d go
The pink of the silk trees, mimosas of white
Jasmines of yellow that shone in the light
Flames of the forest that Cook brought so far, burning bright orange and seen from afar
Flowers like birds and their scents filled the air, Angels Trumpet the Lilies on show everywhere

Under the blue jacaranda, I savoured the views in peace
Her leaves were like fern and her shade cooled me down as I sat in the warm spring breeze
And dreamed that one day I would travel her way if over the seven seas
Ringing her bell flowers, calling me in. My Blue Jacaranda trees ...

Castleton in early Spring, winter lingers - slow to leave
Warm sun’s rays and chill of wind, daffodils along the stream
overlooked by distant hill the ruins of fine Peveril
And in the fields the lambs at play, never fails to thrill

Up high we climb to Hollins Cross, spectacular the views
The Great Ridge to the left and right, unsure which path to choose
The Mother Hill is calling  from her elevated height
Left we  climb, Back Tor, Lose Hill far behind us to the right

The Shivering Mountain she is known, we shiver as we climb
Strengthening gusts, our caps held down,
But on the ground time after time
We reach the summit, touch the trig, the wind still blowing strong
Easter hols and busy, can’t take pics for long

Down we go the pathway steep, look back along the Tor
Remarking on its eastern face, the mini-hills on show
The Blue John mines, the caverns, a few are further down
And weave our way along the paths till we are back in town

One delight - a little lamb had wandered, in our way
Scuttling fast at Mother’s call, she sadly did not stay
No sweeter sight, the playful lambs when gambolling young and free
If only they outlived the Spring, and always so could be

Some turn into their mothers, slow and bloated, eat and eat
and most males simply disappear and reappear as meat
To stomach such a meat as lamb repugnant to my heart
Best not to dwell too much on this, it’s now time to depart

To Spring, to life, to climbing peaks, to see the lambs another day.
Back Tor, Lose Hill to the right, to Hollins Cross the Edale way.

JG 10.4.18

Where the rivers meet we walk where the grass smells sweet we talk where the Monnow stands we're holding hands
Overhead a circling hawk

Where the castle stood we talk where  the earth is mud we walk where the Monnow flows and friendship grows
Overhead the clouds grow dark

Where the meadows green we walk where the skies turn mean we talk
Where the Monnow twists. we turn and kiss
Overhead  a circling hawk

29.7.17 JG

As white as the winter and cold as her smile
She walked through the churchyard, her
wedding train blowing
Her Uncle beside her, his jaw firm and set
Her bridal veil hiding the tears that were flowing
There was no going back, she could tell by his stance
If only he’d listen, in his hands her fate
As white as the winter and cold as the ice
At the top of the church aisle, the bridegroom did wait.
She walked down the aisle on this bleak wedding day
Clutching white roses until her hands bled
Cursing the Uncle who’ll give her away
To the man stood before her with eyes cold and dead
Who held out his hand to her, lifted her veil
As white as the winter, the snow and the hail.
She walked to the altar, the groom at her side
Her heart was another’s, she couldn’t be wed
But vows were then spoken and ring on her finger
His lips pressed against her ‘you’re mine now’ he said
And the world spun around her; she wanted to die
How could she lay with him this dark starless night
As white as the winter, a lamb to the slaughter
Her true love forsaken, no hope within sight
And he led her away through the church to his carriage
Then he drove her to places she’d never dare tred
And she lived with a cold smile, her heart ever frozen
As white as the winter in his wedding bed.

22.10.18 JG