I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.

When I try to get the yarn of thought
twinned between the gleam of stars.
                  The needle always slipping.
From the centre of my yearning,
to guide everyone
                         into the conciseness of my reflection.
Some never get threaded but fall like forgotten tears.
                                                      But others collect them
                   holding on to the falling streams,
                                            swimming with there magic.
I tried to weave my reflections within the stars.
               Collecting everyone like a diamond shimmering
within my gaze, but they only fell making others dreams
a reality. But I still try to twin the stars within my sights

I want to write about someone's eyes
How they look at me or how they shine
The feelings and emotions they reveal
when they look into mine

I want to write about someone's hands
Their palms rough and filled with callus
How they make their way around my waist
with little thoughts of malice

I want to write about someone's hair
How it tangles when I brush through it with my fingers
as you lay on my chest with our legs intwinned together
Dreaming and hoping no eyes would linger

I want to write about someone's lips
The way they wait for mine to come closer
when they touch, I get a faint taste of wine
our bodies drunk but our thoughts are sober

I want to write about someone
I'll imprint their name on paper
I'll write for the whole world to know
You were lead to me by an Almighty Creator

Maybe soon I'll find out who that someone is
and maybe soon I can write about all this

I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, would find tiny creatures of delight.
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where thetrees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x