Marilyn's easel
a Madonna displayed
celluloid goddess
of the temple of the silver screen
we worshipped
ignoring the cracks and the obvious fact
that the woman behind the art
was slipping
slowly dripping off the canvas
now she is no more
we still adore
the puddle on the floor

Our connection
is a pale moon above
and stars that shine
they are yours as much as ever they were mine
we feel the grey of falling rain
the warmth of joy and the chill of pain
we live and we love, we laugh and die
under a yellow sun and the same blue sky

dawn in the garden
fragrant blossoms fill my cup
hot tea with lemon

Hear the dripping branches sing
when the icy breath of winter
melts to kiss the waiting lips of spring

Seventy two Crows
have come to bid you goodbye
dressed in mourning clothes

Sunset lends its many shades
as a dying day begins to fade
the whites of clouds
and parrotfish blues
replaced by glorious fiery hues
colours dance in the sky's cotillion
of melting golds and sweet vermillion

Clouded cattle breath
released to this November morning
a rising sun scarce dares to show its face
no fond embrace will grace a leaden sky
no warm & loving arms
to melt the chill on lonely farms and hills
all is still
as smooth & white
as paint upon a windowsill