The Return

I know you have your worries,
I have my worries too,
Yet what is life without worries?
I’m one of the unhurried few.

When this all is over,
I’ll learn to fish again.
I’ll cast my nets into the sea,
I’ll learn to be a friend.

A hibernating spider
Is dreaming of my pen;
I’ll write about the worries
Until we turn again.

Then we’ll be in Avalon,
There we’ll live in the sea;
Speared by a sheering light
Of love, and quiet harmony.

I Love You Dearly, Deeply

I love you dearly, deeply,
From my keeling core;
How could humble men my love
Wish for any more.

We flew above an ocean,
We found the furthest shore;
In the nets, a million fish
And I returned the trawl.

The merits of love are endless,
When love’s aligned, reciprocal;
Measures loss of time that’s gone
With flowers in our halls.

I love you dearly, deeply,
Bowers breeched the Fall;
The dead-end deaths are sleeping,
There’s time yet to adore.

Blossoming

Never now exhausted,
Love has blossomed forward,
Through an extreme of seasons,
One by one went by.

Spring’s within the Autumn,
Falls are once more roaring,
And those blossom-oils are pouring
Under pastel-orange skies.

Let’s go for a hairpin drive
To where your love resides,
Somewhere secluded in time
Beyond the woodland outside.

I’d rather a life in near-solitude!
For Nature is all-celebrating
While the cities are just enervating,
But only, love, in solitude with you.

October Dresses

I sat down alongside you
In the Church Of Just Getting By;
I placed my hand on your knee
Not born of ego, but to comfort,
Yes, from time to time.
I longed for the rains and ashes
Drained from an Autumn sky;
They stretch so far above Norfolk,
Where’s ending you and I.

I sat alongside purest love
In the Chapel Of Out-waited Time;
Love is not for tempering,
You moved my hand to your thigh.
I wanted to tell you a story
But words were stuck in my spine;
Life is only as good, my love,
As all we put before us,
Where fallacies will die.

Sometimes we seem to transmute
Thoughts between our minds;
The air is thinner, October dresses,
Your colours are divine.
Tortured by past events, memory
Can still yet retrace artefacts
In rooms which no longer exist.
Harassed by this inanity,
In your hopes I will reside.

The Measure

October rains;
I found a tape-measure
Underneath my pillow.
You placed it underneath
My dreams’ verses
Which revert to dramaturgic
Heathlands and dried,
Harvested high-hung wheat
In faded, yellow sheaves,
Kernels cradling hope
Like a jaundiced newborn
Baby in the arms
Of a nurse’s labours
Which are as wide as heaven,
As firm as a popular truth,
And that is the measure
Of how far our love
Endured and endeavoured
To find one another,
Over the thirteen seas
And under a gabled roof,
A pillow filled with straws
Which fall from the hearts
Of winnowing stars.