Winter’s lonely queen
grieving for her summer king
a lover long gone
he left his clothes
an Autumn coat of crimson velvet
lined with orange and a dozen other hues
without his light it faded to a duller forest brown
and she was left with shreds and tatters in her hands
that seamstress spring will come in time
and weave a cloak of gentle forest green
to see him though the coming year

Spend an early hour on the shore
sit for a while
talk if it helps to calm your fears
tell the wind
let iron sand and rushing water be your listening ears
for only they can hear

The sock undid me
just a little thing
soft and yellow and drowning in a puddle
I suppose it fell off when the soldiers came
and they ran for it
I wonder where the other one is
perhaps it is clinging to a tiny wriggling foot somewhere
I hope so

You will not halt the rushing wind
restless seas will turn their tides no matter what you do
rain will fall & wet the land to make it green
leaves will drop at turn of year
you can stop a ticking clock
but you cannot stop time

Poppies after rain
Waving scarlet petticoats
A garden can-can

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

Furrow face, deep ruts
savage cuts that only time and years can plough
fertile grain
once waving yellow in your fields
does not remain
chaff blown brittle on the winter wind
will settle now and then on barren land
sadly turned to sand