Winter’s wrath cut
deep, honing pain
on the stonewashed plots
of harrowed frost.
Her silvered birch,
flayed, *****, and
shadow staining
the adamantine lake,
heavy bound, weighed
harsh with the rugged flocks
of cursing fowl.
Its banks wearied with
age-weathered cottages
of gawking windows
frowned with mouldy thatch
and chimney stacks coercing
the hoary blenched clouds
of burning turf through
an ashen cast morning
of roused jackdaws
arguing into the hard grey
and the Sunday knell
of bells glooming
out of the night wept
frozen from the
dead end dreams of slumber
banishing into haggard yawns.

The open-doored cowshed
steaming in masticated belly cud
and she as dead
as the cold pounded mud floor.
The steel clutched clothes hanger
still wrought hardened to her hand
in the after-botched gore
and soured out milk
splattered frozen
from a kicked bucket
toughening to the temperament
of death’s residues
bloodily intruding
on the tethered ruminants
chewing in the dank-ridden air
of turned silage
and the grind of
shed rats
harrying the winter felled flesh,
gnawing into the midday sun
and the thawing maiden’s
unwanted accursed *******
struggling into decay,
the unsanctified earth
and the condemnations
of the pulpit-pounding
Sabbath man
scathing over
the fires of hell
and his livid-licking brethren.

When I be a roamin' o'er yon hills a rollin', no taxin' or tollin', for what have I got?
I nowt but a rover, come drunk or come sober, 'tis how I come over, a rovin's me lot.
Whate'er me endeavours, the nows an' the nevers, in foul or fair weathers, I'll flourish or rot.
'Tis honest the goin' when one's in the knowin', like water a flowin', it flows, does it not?

A meetin' all fellers, them losers, them beggars, the wounded, the lepers, some hungry an' bled.
To tend them in needin', the torn an' the grievin', a pallet come evenin', them needin' a bed.
'Tis rough when the dyin', some ditch where they lyin' but ne'er they denyin' the lives they have led.
What they of possessions but sins an' confessions, yet they of expressions, bequeathin', what said.

Come river or mountain, whate'er needs surmountin', there's no use in countin' your losses an' gains.
For gainin' from nothin' like losin' what's gotten, 'tis done an' forgotten when rests your remains.
'Tis that of a pilgrim to rove into wisdom; the soul of a kingdom in riches an’ pains.
No fences or mortar, no anthem or border, just God an' his order o'er all His terrains.

A rovin's a charmin', the art of disarmin' an' none ye be harmin', in truth, 'tis a joy.
E'en now that I'm older, still darin', e'en bolder, though somewhat the colder when winters deploy.
'Tis all in the makin's, what wearies, what wakens, the givin's an' takin's we build an' destroy.
'Tis nowt but a journey from pram to the gurney; we wait our attorney, the reaper's employ.

In sunshine or thunder you'll find me out yonder, a rovin' in wonder where ne'er I before.
Out there 'tis a learnin', the maestro declarin', come banter or swearin' pay heed to the score.
Find not ye in bother come stranger or brother, greet one as the other in honest rapport.
An' with that in the keepin' when last we'll be meetin', ye'll lay me down sleepin' when rovin' no more.

I
From oils on canvas, framed in teak,
a goddess spoke to me in Greek;
a tale of light, the journey there,
seductions, greed, and dark despair.
Of pages flicking ancient verse;
though dead the bards, they still converse.
Where beauty waits, where I should dare
to face the storms, to weathers fair.
Of those who sing the light, rejoice;
to seek, I must; to find my voice.
To follow through, a song to where?
Whatever music brings to bear.
But where to look? So vast the land;
to dig a well in desert sand?
In hopes, a spring; the truth, declare,
to breathe the light from honest air.
                         II
I've searched, I've journeyed; how I've aged,
how I have hated, thieved, and raged.
How I have faked the grand affair;
of pretence, I'm a connoisseur.
Traversed the lands and sailed the seas,
I've kicked the dirt and lost the breeze.
I've played the ****, the debonair,
and coward from my nom de guerre.
Temptation's lure of vice and whim;
how easy to succumb to them.
Enthral, entwine, entice, ensnare,
whilst angels cried, "Beware, beware!"
I've cursed the cloth, passed them in need,
heard children cry, yet paid no heed.
The light from coin; that manmade glare;
my everything, my everywhere.
To hell, be ******; the devil's bent;
well, so be it, I shan't relent.
How dare you ask a moment please;
to mend my ways on bended knees?
What of it then? It's my disgrace
if power's won by trailing grace.
What breaks the soul, let hope repair.
Who hopes in wealth? Who’d even care?
Am I not of the light of fame,
deserving praise? I've won the game!
Frame me in teak; let trumpets blare,
where seated on my lofty chair.
                       III
A form in stone, of chiselled pain,
from quarried years, she waits my name.
She looks at me, that sculpted stare:
"Go tell your masons to prepare."
Of nightmares, ghosts unearthing guilt,
out of the empire I have built;
for coin and light can never pair;
there's only light without compare.
Of money's worth, a hollow might;
and nothing thrives in phoney light.
My kingdom come in disrepair;
I should have shone outside the square.
I hear the scythe, the reaper's toil;
let not the undertaker spoil.
There must be light, on this I swear.
Go tell the Greek; I'm nearly there.

“A *** of Earl Grey, Twinings, of course;
loose tea, not those contemptible teabags.
And I have decided on, the three-tiered
melody of afternoon dainties,
the array with the slivered salmon,
with a side serving of lemon,
halved and thinly sliced, mind you.
One is never awarded with
an adequate amount of lemon
with one’s salmon,
and do remove the rinds
and those irritating pips.
Furthermore, do inform chef,
no foreign muck, Scottish salmon
and to make sure it is unsmoked,
smoked salmon and lemon, uncivilized!
Unheard of, I tell you.
And God forbid if served on anything other than silver,
l shall scream.
Do you hear me?”
“I do, madam.” Replied the waiter.
“Good, off with you then,
tout suite, tout suite.” She snapped,
whilst lighting a slender, slim-tipped Davidoff,
seized between her burgundy coated lips.
Her effort successful and when realized,
exhaled, pouted and extinguished the lambent stem
with a deft puff; aware, cautious and determined
in keeping ash-free her legendary silk dress,
often the focus of many an afternoon tea gathering.
Such gatherings, once the highlight of one’s day.
A quotidian ritual, herself, a most ardent sipper,
and considered by many, the grandeur
of such social occasions.
Who, when called upon, no matter what,
always delivered with zest milled exuberance
and the accorded pleasantries,
to solve, enhance or decorate
any situation, as needs must and wants demand
and as always, handled with class,
decorum and quaint properness.
Leaving all and sundry
who sought her assistance
for pleasure or otherwise
midst the silverware, bone china,
pastries and scones,
in jolly good spirits.
A most admirable quality
as was her loquaciousness,
never, not even for a moment, dull,
in keeping with her outlandish dress sense,
prowess in the bedchamber
and her legendary rumour-mongering.
As for her resolve, not unlike
her blue-tinted perm,
ever steadfast, no matter the prevailing winds.

Sadly, unforeseen circumstances intruded
and that most splendid of traditions
was abandoned some months past.
Until today, that is, it being such a beautiful day,
she decided to resume
that, which she, so very much enjoyed
prior to the, aforementioned interference.
A spur of the moment decision,
as was her way,
leaving her with no time
to offer invitations to her flock.
She would have to wing it alone.

As etiquette dictates and she,
its most obedient servant,
was observed, turned out,
in compliance with the
dress code for an afternoon’s excursion
into the elegant pleasures
of tea-sipping and dainty-nibbling,
though a tad over ostentatiously so.
A collage of pearls, pendants,
plumes and a pretty-in-pink parasol
accessorising her meagre physical enticements
into stately pomposity,
topped off with a generous plastering of maquillage,
befitting Madame de Pompadour herself,
and all this, in a rich silk dress,
embroidered with a flourish of
Chinese peonies, precariously flaunted
on a finely glossed pair of
puce red three-inch high stilettoes
with a three-figure price tag.
She was to be splendidly complemented upon
if one were to stray into her
perfumed drenched purlieu,
where she was displayed,
sitting blushingly plump
at an ero marquina marble
topped table, dressed for two.
A hoary, blue-tinted socialite
amongst a ghastly scattering
of low browed, ill-mannered diners
and to her abhorrent dismay,
a seating of dusky-hued foreigners.
“How utterly awful!”
She, griping to the empty chair.
Seventy-four years of airs and graces,
waited upon, pampered and now, afternoon tea
on the veranda of her favourite hotel.
Were it not for the hoi polloi,
bliss would have been opulently seamless.

“To return after a few months’ hiatus
and now this, this lot,
what is the world coming to?
Whoever allowed the common herd entry, is beyond me.
Must ruffle the flock and make known
to management, one’s profound displeasure.”
She, vexing to herself.
Until then, defended her table,
armed only with intentional disregard
to all outside her haughty dominion.
Stood her ground in highbrowed conspicuity,
Davidoff plumes
and mutterings of disgust,
focusing mainly on the dusky interlopers.
Who obviously necessitated no appreciation
or had any comprehension
whatsoever as to the formalities or graces
associated with the stately
modus operandi of afternoon tea.
“Tut-tut-tut.”
She tut-tutted to herself.
Continuing, in silence, her detest
whilst awaiting one’s treats.

“I’ll play mother.” She demanded,
when the waiter arrived,
slapping his hand away from the teapot,
an unsavoury trespass,
somewhat dusky, himself.
She, alone, would pour the tea
and did so with composure
albeit lacking grace,
a consequence of age.
Four lumps of sugar
plink-plonked from a pair
of silver-plated tweezers
and with a raised pinky
poured from a silver-plated jug
a trickle of milk,
liking her tea, hot,
very hot
and stirred clockwise
with her right hand
whilst holding a pair of
handheld spectacles in her left,
through which, scrutinized
the three-tiered display
of afternoon niceties,
as usual, in frowned silence
until satisfied that everything was,
as instructed and to her pleasure.
Contented, “Capital!“ She exclaimed,
followed with a snarling dismissal of the waiter,
“Off with you then!”
“Of course, madam.” He replied,
as would a lamb obey a wolf.

Her first choice of deliciousness
was a delicately layered pastry,
politely picked from the lowest tier.
As was her custom, always dined
from the bottom, up.
The top tier usually the sweetest,
dessert, as it were.
Herself, having a sweet tooth
as evident in her triple chin,
puffed jowls
and strained corset.
Biting off a morsel, during which,
holding a napkin beneath her three chins,
to keep crumb-free her legendary silk dress.
Her burgundy-bloated lips never parting
as she patiently chewed, allowing the flavours
to release their delectable secrets.
The chef’s skills overwhelming her taste buds
with a palette of scrumptious mysteries.
She paused, oohed and
declared with shrilled enthusiasm,
“Oh, this is absolutely delic…”
when realising, her husband,
that unforeseen circumstance
now four months into rot,
downed in a hunting accident
when the boar fought back,
and there, facing her, she found herself
talking to an empty chair
on the veranda of their favourite hotel
whilst the acursed boar remained at large.

Her Ceaser, his Throne, their Empire.
“Absit omen!” Beseeched her pathetic hopes,
inwardly knowing, fantasy would not oblige.
An ineffable feeling of loneliness befell her.
As if plucked from one’s pleasure by
the memory of another, now dead and buried.
Chewing for solace but to no avail,
the delicate pastry losing its flavours
as the peculiarities of loss
welled over the tiered array of make-believe.
Striving, as inconspicuously as possible,
to stave off the embarrassment of grieving in public.
However, such was the intensity of her distress,
her efforts were futile,
eventually succumbing
to the uncontrollable tears of grief.
Unbecoming her demeanour,
she faltered, the imperial dye
laundered away in the wash of sorrow,
etiquette violated.
Alone, a lady of no companion,
crying like a lost child desperate for affection.
A weeping remnant
of a once glittering society.
Its Ceaser: her beloved,
who now,
but a gored corpse.

Her inappropriately timed outpourings,
gloat-fodder for the present peasantry,
whose gawking intrusions made it
so unbearably degrading,
especially here, on the veranda of her favourite hotel,
where afternoon tea was a truly delicious occasion.
Such an appropriate ritual
complementing a most gracious way of life,
and now, for commoners, dusky foreigners and servants
to bear witness to the, often hailed,
much loved, doyenne of decadence,
usurped by grief,
destroyed in humiliation
and not a friend when one needed most.
Her pompous maquillage smudged to insignificance
by the salty residues of a weeping heart.
At a table dressed for two
sat a miserable creature, forsaken,
banished to the cold-hearted states of loneliness,
displayed in naked vulnerability
and a stained silk dress.
And to think, the rumours will be unbearable.

“There, there; it’s okay.” Whispered the waiter,
rushing to her aid, placing his arm gently around her shoulders
and she, leaning into his chest,
inconsolable; crying, pleading,
“Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me.”
“There, there; it’s okay.” He whispered,
as he tried to calm the arrogant racist *****
pining relentlessly for her arrogant racist cur,
as would a lamb lick the wounds of a fallen wolf.

Humidity’s risin’, the air’s scrutinizin’
my waitin’ for her to come home.
There’s bothers a loomin’, the bayou’s consumin’
suspicions, that she ain’t alone.
Bullfrogs are croakin’ on the mists they are smokin’:
knowin’ that somethin’ ain’t right.
When she left this mornin’, the nets, they were haulin’
an’ now they are draped for the night.

The moon’s in her hidin’ for fear of confidin’
with that which is chokin’ the air.
A cruel kind of silence, unseen in its violence:
ain’t nothin’ but evil out there.
The rooster to preenin’ the night in its leavin’:
I’m dreadin’ the comin’ of day.
When scandals come trawlin’ an’ rumours a callin’:
an awakenin’ into the fray.

I’ve heard all the stories, ’bout her an’ her forays:
some stranger was burnin’ her flame.
I left that to slumber, some ill-mouthed monger:
gossipers defilin’ her name.
The truth of the matter the mornin’ will scatter
the day into light’s disarray.
I should have known better but who knows the weather,
like waitin’ yer worries away.

Make way to the jetty, my boat's at the ready,
I’ll put out to sea on a whim.
I’ll pack me a compass an’ belly the canvas
on a hope and a gallon of gin.
What use irritatin’ the tempers of waitin’:
the waitin’ for what, but her lies.
A fair wind’s a greetin’ the sails when a meetin’
an’ the tide is calm on the rise.

No more I’m returnin’, my bridges I’m burnin’:
the sins of her makin’s ain’t mine.
The ebbin’ of evenin’ will dim a man’s leavin’:
I’ll see out my troubles with time.
To yon, the horizon, no use criticisin’:
I’ll leave what is left of my heart.
To the bayou, her skeeters, croakers an’ cheaters;
whose gators would rip ya apart.

My man: a life of labour
and from that there’s no escape.
Farms golden fields of barley
and grand yellow fields of ****.
Digging ditches, stacking hay,
spreading fodder for the cows.
Beds of veg, the chickens fed
and the slops kept for the sows.
Rolled up sleeves in weathers all,
find him sweating like a pig.
Mending fences, mucking out
and there’s always drills to dig.
His pants bound with cable cord,
and his boots laced up with twine.
The cap he wears all these years
and the scarf he wears are mine.
Easly roused when nowt to do
but beholden on the whole
At times, too, as mad as hell
yet a most forgiving soul.
Rough a cut, as tough as nails
but as honest as a saint
Though far from the church, he is,
a religious man, he ain’t.
Pulpit thumpers thumping fear,
interfering worrywarts.
More important things to do,
tend a pig when out of sorts.
Postmen quake when bearing bills
and them bankers make him swear.
The taxman wates at the gate,
making sure the coast is clear
Curses at the weatherman,
the government should be downed.
Lying through their pearly whites
as they pass the blame around.
Weather-bet these fifty years,
had to slog through flood and drought.
Twixt cuss and grunt he laboured,
how in hell he stuck it out.
Raw and ready, to the hilt,
without more ado belt on.
Complaining gets you nowhere,
takes what bothers as they come.
His skin as tough as leather
and his hair still full and red.
His bright blue eyes though dimming
but that’s better left unsaid.
Will flee in fear and terror
if in romance he is sought.
He’s not that kind of fellow
but will love you as he ought.
Not a great head for numbers,
so, the books are left to me.
Marriage is a balanced sheet,
it’s the seal of harmony.
What I can’t do, he’ll resolve.
twixt we twain we’ll see it through.
If we can’t, well then, we shan’t,
and accept what we can’t do.
Labours with what tools to hand,
takes his failures in his stride.
Wrong or right, no matter what,
to oneself, one must abide.
His gait is kind of awkward,
sort of tilted with a limp.
Though doubt him not, knows his lot
and on that he will not skimp.
Of  quick a wit, odd in ways,
and as is without excuse.
What needs be, what matters must
for all else is of no use.
Of cabbage, spuds and bacon
and for that a, “Thank you ma’am.”
For breakfast, always porridge
and for supper cheese and ham.
Loves my homemade soda bread
with a spread of goosegog jam.
He takes it in the evening
with a cuppa from a can.
He rolls his own cigarettes
and can be of foul a mouth.
But holds his tongue when needs to,
when he knows that I’m about.
Has a penchant for the porter
and takes whiskey in his tea.
No matter drunk or sober,
he is still in love with me.
And I, too, in love with him,
I’m as lucky as they come.
Of all the men, I have known,
to compare, in truth, there’s none

Of pure a flame when still the night,
when undisturbed the noble quiet.
A hope reborn, a bud of light,
a yearning burns a candle bright.

Leave melting wax to weep and dry,
like ancient tears, solidify.
The end, adieu, to reason why,
but flames forbid to bid goodbye.

Consumed the dark, rid night of fear,
come closer to the flame, my dear.
And let the light come commandeer,
what loved and lost to reappear.

To wither with the waning glow
and yet the flame won't let her go.
Perhaps the light a love bestow,
alas, when doused but darkness know.