When I fashion words and thoughts, and weave them into lucid rhyme,
they say to me, "Why do you bother?... it's all just a waste of time.
There's nothing in it for you; it's all done for free, with no reward."
They miss the point completely, in their grey, and avaricious world.

I find it sad... this crass indifference to this portal to the thoughts,
from whence, spring such diverse confections, tantalising mind and heart.
Enticing those, who keep emotions captive... out of others' sight;
to blossom... like a fragile bloom unfolding in the warm sunlight.

I use the English language in the fashion it was taught to me.
That wondrous journey of discovery through the Oxford Dictionary.
A set of tools, unrivalled, to one who plies a Poet's trait;
so many words... so many ways, a thought one can elaborate.

The style, and subject of my rhymes; by some, it's true... are deemed to be
a little maudlin; perhaps dated... incorrect, politically.
Whilst outwardly, so worldly wise; inside... and hidden, there exists
in me, a hopeless, true romantic... an iron glove - but, a velvet fist.

The thoughts and dreams behind the words... I hope, reach out, and touch your mind;
and gently soft... caress emotions; thus, I hope that you may find
your pathway to forgotten memories... loves held secret and discreet;
if this is true, the circle of my poem then becomes complete.

And that is, in my world at least; what poetry is all about;
seduction by imagination... no regrets, or pain, or doubt.
Except in words upon the page; ephemeral... no deep wants or needs;
the sensual stroking of the senses; making love with words... not deeds.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words are couched in subtle style... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it wishful thinking? They are just some lines of poetry.
I read the words again, and yet... I know my heart cannot be wise.
There may be nothing there at all; and yet, my heart insistently
whispers...
read between the lines. She wouldn't use those words, unless
She has opened up her heart for you... it's true; can you not see?
But this would be a bold conceit... for such a thing to second-guess.

And, why should She choose me, alone... amongst so many willing hearts
arrayed before Her there, to choose? I am no better than the rest,
except, perhaps, in weaving words... such pretty pictures to impart;
but, they are only words; although, in truth; I think, if I were pressed;
I would confess that they were more than that... they are soft whisperings
my heart tells me I should reveal... though seeming better not professed
at all, for fear of gently tugging at Her fragile, sweet heartstrings
laying forth the heart-truths She might wish were better not expressed.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words read like a Lovers Kiss... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it just my wishful thinking? And, is it just poetry?
I read the lines again, and wonder if my heart, soft tells me lies.
I cannot read the truth as by her subtle thoughts, I am caressed;
a tiny hint perhaps, just there? And further on... that phrase, likewise.
Is there a whisper here for me? A few soft words that might suggest
something I might hope to find... on which a fragile dream relies.

A fragile dream of whispered words soft penned, perhaps, not just for me;
what makes me think it could be so?... such bold conceit is most unwise.
And yet... I feel there's something there; the softest, sweetest melody
I scarcely hear at all; a whisper softly cloaked, beyond my eyes.
Does my heart deceive me? Is there nothing there? Perhaps, it's true.
Little here to base a Love affair upon... it's too absurd;
and yet... from less than this; down through the ages, Great Romances grew;
and Love will always find a way... and not least; through a whispered word.

Sweet Lady, such words I might sometime weave here, hold no cloaked device;
no honeyed subterfuge to soft, beguile and steal your heart away;
to ease a pathway to your bed; seducing, couched to soft entice;
unless... of course, you want it so; but, that is a different game to play.

A game to play 'twixt you and I, alone... such words you will not find
here, upon some page laid forth before the all-consuming eyes
of others...
No; such words to whisper thus, remain yet in my mind
for you, alone; as yet, un-versed; for you, l would not compromise.

What you see here... words of the song the hopeless, Lost Romantic sings,
of love as it was meant to be; that sweetest hope each heart holds true.
Together, 'til forever; such a simple hope to which it clings;
and, in its bright-eyed innocence, must always, this sweet dream pursue.

And yet, love tends to show its face, when we least expect it to;
As yet, the un-versed words lie sleeping;
might I waken them... for you?

Come, let me take you by the hand; I'll lead you to a secret place
where dwells the hidden one who seldom feels the Sun upon his face.
Come tip-toe past dark memories that echo down these shadowy halls,
be not afraid... you will not stumble, I will catch you, should you fall.

Within this labyrinth of sorrow, strewn about with shattered dreams,
discover now, the secret one... for 'naught is ever as it seems.
The lost romantic, pierced by evils selfish cynics say and do;
His words of love quite out of fashion; used by all... meant by so few.

His woven words spun soft, and gentle have no place... cannot succeed,
in a world of subterfuge, mendacity, and naked greed.
What happened to the childhood truths once taught with patience, and, with care?
Shed carelessly, with scant remembrance; damage words cannot repair.

Remember then, the hidden one, who, in the darkness, must remain,
shackled to his empathy; he knows the sorrow and the pain;
and, turning back with eyes unseeing, snuffs the flame he strove to free;
his words... no more than sparrow's tears in a sea of brash cupidity.

She wanders through the Labyrinth of thoughts, of dreams; of hopes, of fears.
A whisper on the winds of my imagination... to appear
unbidden; when I least expect her... murmuring her soft demand;
and she... a stern, and jealous Mistress; bending me to her command.

She, who is called... Muse.

From whence she came, I have no knowing... 'nor how long she may remain;
'nor then, can I guess her humour when she comes to me again.
Will she bring bright hope of love, or sadness of a love mislaid?
Or, bitterness of love confounded? Venom of a love betrayed?

She, who is called... Muse.

If bitterness, or venom, be it; then... in truth, I shall defy;
for that is not my way; not from my pen will thoughts, corrosive lie.
The path I seek is softer... gentler... love, as it was meant to be;
there is rhyme enough... and more; of selfish, shadowed misery

from She, whom they call... Muse.

But, for such defiance... then, her retribution will be swift;
tantalising thoughts... impossible to rhyme, will be her gift;
or, perhaps a sensual, honeyed web of thought, that can, but lead
to mangled couplets; ruptured rhymes... something, that I do not need

from She, they would call... Muse.

She is a stern, and Jealous Mistress; but in truth, she will return
after she has ransacked all the Labyrinth... resolved to learn
where it is, that lie the sweetest memories, safe-tucked away;
but these are not hers for the taking, in this complex game I play

with She, who is called... Muse.

She whispers on the winds of my imagination, all the while.
But, will it bring to those who read... soft memory?... A tear?... A smile?
A wistful smile, perhaps... for something lost, but still, sweet memory?
A smile of hope, for something, yet to come? Tears for what could not be?

This then, is She who is called... Muse.

How did you steal my heart away? What magic did you weave about
me, softly...
like the breath of spring gently cloaks the winter chill?
No warning of your soft approach; yet, I am lost; there is no doubt
my heart succumbed to your enchantment, and I know, it always will.

Your touch, so soft... invisible; as gentle, as an Angel's kiss,
that reached in, and caressed my heart to spark a flame that burns so bright.
It blinds me to all reasoned thought... to everything, except for this...
I am so very close to falling; you are such a sweet delight.

And, if I fall, then I am lost, forever; no thought of return
to what was once; the way would close, and no regret, were I with you;
held close in your heart, as you are held in mine; Oh, how I yearn
to hold you, and to share a love that could not wane... was always true.

How did you steal my heart away... finding where it softly hid?
The question doesn't really matter;
I'm just so very glad, you did.

The Moon is on the water and the wind is stirring in the trees.
The Willow leaves smile silver in the moon-glow, turning in the breeze.
The wispy Cirrus clouds are riding high... a veil of gossamer white;
a Moorhen chatters out there, somewhere; safely cloaked in velvet night.

I watch the silvered ripples as they tumble, tinkling in the stream;
a mood of wistful contemplation settles on me, it would seem.
I watch the moon's reflection in the water, mirrored shiveringly;
always moving, yet not moving... dancing through infinity.

I wonder what the moon has seen and heard, whilst resting, shimmering there?
Eavesdropping lovers' whispered dreams? Perhaps, heartbreak and black despair?
How many stories could she tell? how many secrets does she know?
Smiling up impassively, imprisoned in the watery flow.

I gaze up, and I watch the moon, serenely pale, and floating high;
and ponder the creative power of that old rock up in the sky.
The poetry... romantic connotations... myriad artistry;
for what she really is, she's done extremely well, it seems to me.

Considering the competition overshadowing her space,
from her Celestial elder sister, Mother Earth... so full of grace;
all azure blue, and green, and white... and beautiful; from pole to pole;
yet, only Cinderella Moon, it seems... can touch romantic souls.

I gaze back down into the water; musing this analogy.
Whimsical perhaps, but yes... it holds a certain truth for me.
Of "Harvest Earth," of "Earth-beams," or, of "Earth-light"... poets never write;
I wonder why?... and watch her sail, calm and serene, into the night.

Oh, sweet Lady; can you hear the whispered words soft-spun about
these close-versed couplets couched in gentle subterfuge... so, others doubt
if they have actually read what they think, they have seen... or have inferred
from what would seem a simple poem.  We alone, can read the words.

Oh, sweet Lady; can you feel the soft caress of gentle longing
woven through the very fabric of these words, each one belonging
to no-one but you; you have my thoughts... you have my heart; take care...
we must not lose the soft delight of this poetic Love Affair.

Oh, sweet Lady; in this world, we are unchained... we can be free
to whisper all the sweetest things that, in the real world, cannot be
anything, but hoped for; only then, in sad love.... unrequited.
Here, there can be no betrayal... faithfulness remains unblighted.

Oh, sweet Lady; do you feel the sensuous glide of thoughts begin
to gently touch your secret, inner feelings... does the warmth, therein
contained in whispered words of love all written, but, still from my lips...
gently stroke your mind, like velvet skin touched by soft fingertips?

Oh, sweet Lady; we can live forever... safe, within this place,
our words and thoughts become immortal; love, time just cannot erase.
We can never grow old down the drifting years, as others do...
The Poetry of love is ageless... it will still come shining through.

Oh, sweet Lady; if, but one, or two of our soft, heartfelt thoughts
are still remembered, down the years... perhaps, some poet, who has sought
the secret of the True Romantic... whispered dreams, still there, may spy;
and weave a gentle poem of a sweet romance t'wixt you, and I.

Beneath the Limestone edge of the escarpment called the Cotswold Hills
lies the market town of Stroud, which once, was home to diverse mills
producing cloth; for countless streams flow down from off the Wolds, so high,
and wool aplenty, thereabouts ... sheep country, far as meets the eye.
And, spread out like a starfish arms; five valleys all about, do spread
around the town; 'though, more a pentagram, some locals whisperingly said.
Vague talk of Witchery and Covens, Pagan rites ... black candles lit;
it is, indeed, a curious place; whatever is the truth of it.

And, should you take the second Northern valley... once the old Coach road
that ran from Bath to Worcester; in the dark of night, you need be bold.
By light of day, a pretty route that skirts the valley pleasingly
up into Slad; the birthplace of the Famous Author: Laurie Lee.
Cider with Rosie... you can almost feel the echoes, hereabout;
for time has almost passed this little village by, there is no doubt.
The woods, the meadows where he spent his childhood ... much the same, today;
but, this is window dressing; for the real tale is two miles away.

Further up the valley is a windswept, empty place... all gaunt;
thrusting out above the woods, as if, its nakedness to flaunt.
A wild, and lonely shoulder of the Wolds... where only grass will grow,
where once, two Coach-roads crossed each other; many, many years ago.
Perhaps, if you are sharp of eye, you may make out the traces, still,
of coach wheel ruts in overgrown, green lanes which time has not yet filled.
The modern road runs parallel to the old Bath-Worcester coaching run;
And this, is then... Bull's Cross; and now, this story really has begun.

For it is said, on certain nights, about the hour of Twelve Midnight,
with Bull's Cross silent as the grave... all bathed in leprous, pale moonlight;
particularly, on New Years Eve; if dread misfortune strikes your soul
you may well see the Bull's Cross coach all thundering down, out of control.
The coach, all silver-grey; the galloping horses... flaring... runaway;
the pistol crack of snapping harness; coachman crying... "Clear the way!"
and then, the sound of splintering shafts... the screams of passengers thrown down
upon the wind-bent wilderness; all scattered, dying all around.

Some old disaster lost in time; played out at midnight, certain nights...
and those who have not seen it, boast they have... and those who have, keep tight
their lips;
for it is said, the sighting of the spectral coach will lay
a curse upon those witnesses who let their loose tongues run away,
and babble of what they have seen... the moonlit, splintered wheels a-spin;
they turn chalk-white, their teeth fall out, they meet their death by trampling.
And, there is more; there is another phantom lurking in this place,
and if you meet him, you must never, ever look him in the face.

For just below Bull's Cross, there stands a wood... dank, yellow... overgrown,
known locally as Deadcombe Bottom; not a place to go alone.
And here, there is a cottage... tumbledown, and open to the skies,
deep in the wood; all hidden from the passing, curious, prying eyes.
For Bull's Cross is a jutting baldness all the villages can see;
a perfect place to raise a Gallows... so, a Gallows, there would be.
The cottage, then... was specially chosen as the Bull's Cross Hangman's home;
close to his place of work, yet hidden... somewhere, people did not roam.

He lived there with his son, and worked his trade; he was a skilful man.
Times were hard, and he was busy; nightly... felons to be hanged.
One stormy night... a routine summons... a shivering lad brought to his hand.
Used to working in the dark... the lad despatched... he paused to stand
and light his pipe;
the moon slipped out, and lit the gallows, pale and wan,
and, in the rain-soaked face that stared at him... the Hangman saw his son.
To his companions he said not a word... just turned, and walked away;
and in his cottage, on a hook, he hanged himself without delay.

There is, but one wall standing now... and in that wall, a great iron hook
blood-red with rust... the very same from which, his final step, he took.
Still dank and yellow is the wood... silent, bird-less; not a place
you would wander in by choice... walk quickly by... increase your pace.
For it is said, on stormy nights he wanders all about Bull's Cross
searching for his son... and, if you see his face, then you are lost.
Condemned to walk with him forever, upon that bleak and windswept rise...
I wouldn't walk up there at Midnight;
'nor would you... if you are wise.

The fly-blown, garish, neon advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning, in his hand; his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
And, hasn't called now, for close on a month... not since that dreadful night
he came home to an empty, cold apartment... and, no sign of her.
The letter... ominous, on the table; which he knew, one day, she'd write,
for, though they loved each other, he could always feel a shadow... there.

She wrote... there was no-one to blame; just that their love, they had outgrown,
and she had met somebody else; She could not stay... she had to leave.
To stay, would be to live a lie... he would be better on his own;
so he could find somebody else... a love, in which he could believe.
The letter burned into his brain. He read it once, he read it twice;
had everything been just a game?... the whisky bottle smiled at him.
He climbed inside to drown himself; his heart was cold... as cold as ice,
and, in the whisky's warm, bright kiss... his eyes, with helpless tears, did swim.

And, there he stayed, until the whisky bottle held no Golden smile,
and then, he stumbled to his bed... but, there would be no comfort there.
No familiar warmth, so soft... his sleepy senses, to beguile;
just a linger on the pillow of her sweetly perfumed hair.
And, so he lay there, in the darkness, until he could stand no more;
he wandered out into the night, to greet again his Golden friend.
Through the cold, and rain-swept streets; from seedy bar, to seedy bar...
knowing this would be his future; knowing this would never end.

The ******, lounging further down the bar, watched with voracious eyes...
slipping skirt a little higher; stocking tops eased into view.
Watching coldly from beneath her green eye-shadowed, brash disguise;
but, he scarcely glanced at her... a total waste of time... she knew.
And, time was money... so, she rose, and tottered out on spiky heels;
his Golden friend will understand... his Golden friend won't make him cry.
He swirls the ice cubes in his glass... his Golden friend knows how he feels;
he misses her... her warmth, her smile; It's not the ***... *** he can buy.

The fly-blown, garish neon, advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning in his hand... his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
He waves a banknote at the barman; same again... the bottle, too.
He gazes down into his glass, and contemplates his Golden friend.
His Golden friend will never leave... his Golden friend is always true.
Remember, then...
a broken heart will never quite completely mend.

Poetry is a curious thing; it has a power we cannot see
but only feel... perhaps, not even that; just sense, instinctively.
The words a poet uses, and the order in which they appear,
can mean all things to all people; you read in them what you desire.

Perhaps, you can see love, or longing; tears, or laughter... hope or fear;
some star-crossed tryst... some misty dream; it is a thing all poets share.
There are so many variations; weaving rhyme in different styles;
a Golden world, so full of promise... gentle smiles; or wistful sighs?

Do you want to soar above the mountains in the endless blue?
Do you want to wander mist-wreathed lands where, still, the Moonflowers grow?
Do you want a tale of unrequited love, soft drenched in tears;
half-lost, but half-remembered through the shadows of long drifting years?

Or, would you rather craft a subtle, perfect Sonnet for your sweet?
the quatrains merging elegant... the couplets rhyming, fair and neat.
A work of such sweet elegance... your lover's heart is in your hand;
these things are all here to be found in this poetic promised land.

This is where true magic lies within us all... no more... no less;
for, deep down... we are all Romantics; we all seek the soft caress
of fantasy... some sweet Idyll of tragic love, now lost in time;
these whispered dreams of captive hearts all bound in gently flowing rhyme.

The Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Turnpikes and the Posting Inns
are scattered all across the County; many tales... where to begin?
Perhaps, to paint a picture of the countryside, to show just why
so many Blackguards, Highwaymen and Footpads there, in wait, did lie.
Compassing round Gloucester Vale, the Cotswold Scarp that reaches steep
up to the High Wolds would confound the Mails... their schedules to keep;
and as the horses struggled up the hills; at length, the Wolds to see...
The Highwaymen would fall on them, to pillage with impunity.

There were five major Mail Coach routes across the County in those days.
The Bristol-Oxford-London route was favourite, in many ways;
the long climb out, up Dowdeswell Hill... three miles of twisting, shadowy lane;
then on to Shipton Bank... yet two more miles of sweating, tiring strain.
On into Compton Parish where, God speed... soon into sight, would come...
Puesdown; for a change of horses, and a rest for everyone.
The Puesdown Inn... a lonely refuge on the road to London Town;
crouching four-square on the High Wolds... sturdy built, of honeyed stone.

The Mail Coach had departed Bristol early, in the morning light,
but, by the time that they accomplished Puesdown... slowly crept the night
upon them... whilst the Postern loaded Blunderbuss decisively,
the travellers watched in trepidation, wondering what their fate would be.
Next morn, they need cross Compton Bottom... on up then, to Hangman's Stone
where stood the Parish Gibbet... and this Gibbet never stood alone
Always, someone neck-roped there; soft tinkling in the wind... their chains;
perhaps, some plough-boy blinded by the promise of ill-gotten gains.

Perhaps, some Highwayman whose luck ran out... as luck is bound to do.
Perhaps, some Footpad who slit one too many throats... for shillings, few.
Perhaps, some Blackguard who, not waiting for consent... despoiled some maid;
But, not as yet...The Duke; the Highwayman of whom, all were afraid.
The Duke... he prowled the Oxford road from Shipton Bank to Windrush Pike;
he gave no quarter to his prey... much like an Adder swiftly strikes.
The merest hint of least resistance, and his pistols... they would speak,
cutting down those who would dare gainsay the plunder he did seek.

Until, one night, he overplayed his hand whilst holding up The Mail.
A storm-swept, snow-blown wintering night... the night his pistol primings failed.
Calling them "Stand and Deliver"... firing, as they swift retired;
both pistols flashing in the pan... loads not discharging... both misfired!
Swift-wheeling round his mount to flee... the Postern did discharge a ball;
clatteringly, The Duke sped down the icy road... he did not fall.
Had they hit him? No-one knew; at Puesdown, though... they knew the score;
The Duke, swift bleeding from the chest, leaned, beating on the Taproom door.

But, they would not bid him enter... casements locked... doors barred, all sound.
Without the Inn... an hour or more, they say he dragged himself around,
dripping blood; beseeching mercy...a thing, his victims he denied.
They found him in the yard, next morn. Alone out there, he froze... and died.
The Parish Constables then bundled him off, up to Hangman's Stone,
and hoisted him upon the Gibbet... fettered, chained, to swing alone.
A grim, and awful warning to dissuade those culls, who thought to stray
into a life of easy pickings... robbing on the King's Highway.

The Road to Oxford long-since changed; a bypass now skirts Northleach Town.
The Puesdown Inn still stands four-square... still sturdy built, of honeyed stone.
The old road now has little use... odd courting couples... local folk;
but in the Hamlets there are stories; whispers... words not often spoke,
about strange things out on that ancient Coaching road near Hangman's Stone.
They say it's not a place to linger in the night... 'nor be alone.
They say The Duke still prowls this place, still seeking vengeance for his fate;
They say that if you hear the clattering hooves... then, for you... it's too late.

And, at The Puesdown Inn, they say, some guests hear bangings on the door
of what was once, the Taproom... perhaps, just the wind? No-one is sure.
They say you may hear footsteps dragging round, and round those Honeyed walls...
and rattlings on the casements... and soft groaning... but, what then, the cause?
For Puesdown is an Ancient Inn; its timbered beams all tired and worn;
they creak and groan as they cool in the night... was thus, a legend born?
Is it just wind out in the trees; soft whimpering on the Wolds, so high?
Or... is it, indeed, The Duke... still seeking somewhere warm to die?

The place is Gloucester City; I'm on foot patrol, Beat Number Five;
The time... 2-45am, the City dead; nothing alive.
Progressing through another lonely night-shift... not a soul around,
the dead streets echo to my footsteps; beyond that, the only sound
is the wind that whimpers through the narrow alleys, here and there;
I turn off Westgate Street, down into College Court... the thoroughfare
leading into College Green, where the great Cathedral lies.
The little passageway is shadowed; carefully, I cast my eyes
across the shop-doors... check the locks, shine my torch for better view;
then, by the The House of the Tailor of Gloucester... I walk beneath the arch into
College Green... the car park's silent... there in splendid majesty
towers the mighty stone Cathedral, into the night, in front of me.

My footsteps echo like the crack of doom upon the old flagstones
beneath the border of the trees that guard the crouching houses thrown
along the south side of the Upper Green, as I walk down to turn
into the precincts, skirting round the Great East Window; to discern
how many drunks and dossers I might find within this hallowed ground...
but as I pass the south transept... something makes me turn around.
There; by a small door, stands a cassocked figure in the shadowy light...
who lifts his hand and calls to me...
"Goodnight, my son; be safe, this night."
I study him; he's sixty-ish; he wears a beard... his face is thin;
As I make to answer him, he turns away and walks back in
through the door into the great Cathedral, and there, echoes, plain...
the screak of ancient hinges, and the rattle of the keys again...
being turned...

... how very odd. I'd better check all is secure...
it's very late for Godly works; and so, I carefully check the door.
Nothing moves; and so, I take up my patrol once more, around
the outer east end of the massive nave, where, in the past, I've found
the dead-beats, and the drunks, and dossers slumped against the buttressed wall...
but tonight, it's silent as the grave... there's no-one here at all.
I quietly walk on down the path towards the ruined infirmary...
a single, standing stretch of arched wall; where my footsteps hollowly
echo in the silence as I move on down to Miller's Green...
almost as if I'm being followed... but there's nothing to be seen.
But, even if there was... the shadows here are dark, with no street lights,
except the odd, wall-mounted lantern glowing dimly in the night.

This really is a creepy place at night; of that, there's little doubt.
I walk on past the end-wall arch and the echo following me, fades out.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I pass the Little Cloister House;
The ancient, timbered, stepped-up gables loom... all's quiet as a mouse...
when suddenly... a crash and clatter...
WHAT THE ******* WAS THAT?
I freeze... and then, a dark shape dashes out... it's just a sodding cat
rummaging the waste-bins; and I breath again... that was a fright!
Greenly eyeing me, the cat slinks off beyond the pool of light
thrown by the streetlamp on the corner. Miller's Green is dark and still;
before me looms the shadowed, vaulted passageway through which I will
walk back into College Green where, to my right, the Almonry
stands hard by St Mary's Gate; once, entrance to the Monastery...

that stood, in medieval times; here; I resume patrol again...
I pass beneath the gateway's ribbed arch, stepping into Three ***** Lane.
There before me, in St Mary's Square... the ornate Monument
to martyred Bishop John Hooper of Gloucester... recreant Protestant;
who never would recant, and thus, for heresy... at length, condemned
by ****** Mary; the, then Catholic Queen; would meet his gruesome end
by being burned alive at this same spot... where now, the only sound
is the mournful whimper of the wind, all softly spinning round
the intricate, carved stonework, as he gazes down towards the gate
as if to say... "Move on, my son; guard The Queen's Peace... it's getting late."
And so, I walk up Three ***** Lane, and turn back into Westgate Street;
patrolling up towards the City Centre, where the four Beats meet.

No sign of Tim on Southgate Three Beat... he must be down by the quay...
Ah!... there's Mike across on Four Beat... Hey! He's flashed his torch at me...
Hurry on up to The Cross... What's up?... He laughs; "I'm bored to hell...
it's quiet as a ****** grave... what's your patch like?... come on, do tell."
I smile; "It's much the same as yours... the only really big event
was... a **** cat raiding bins... d'you think that's "Loitering with Intent?"
Better not to mention what I think I saw in College Green...
it would rather blow the "Street-cred," and... I don't want to be seen
as twitchy... but I'll check it out this afternoon; you never know...
"OK" he says, "I'll see you later." and he turns away, to go
back down Eastgate Street, and I continue on my lonely Beat;
shining torchlight into doorways, down the length of Northgate Street.

After I had had some sleep, I came back down to College Green,
and entering the Great Cathedral, told the Verger what I'd seen;
asking him if all was well... he looked at me most curiously
then motioned I should follow him along the nave, to where would be...
the door; but when I looked, I could see nothing but a solid wall...
where the door should be... indeed, there was no sign of door at all.
He said there once had been a doorway here, three hundred years ago,
where they gave charity to beggars; but times change, alas... and so
the door was walled up solidly in Cotswold stone; three full feet wide...
the outer door was left in place; so as not to spoil the southern side
of the outer prospect of this Gothic architectural jewel...
I stood; mouth wide in disbelief... staring like some mindless fool.

He watched my face, and then he grinned; "What you saw son, there is no doubt;
was Bishop Hooper... at this time of year he often walks about
his Bishopric. You aren't the first young Copper... and won't be the last
to meet with Bishop Hooper at this time of year when you go past
the south transept as you patrol your patch, on down to Miller's Green;
the old, false door in the south-side nave... that's usually where he's seen
early in the mornings of the first few day of February...
always from that same old door, around the anniversary
of his death down on St Mary's Square, in 1555;
we've seen him once or twice in here... almost as though he's still alive.
Almost as if he's checking up to make sure all is safe and well
with Diocese, and Dean and Chapter... and not least... his Cathedral.

Coppers come and Coppers go... and Gloucester changes down the years;
So does the Policing; no more foot patrols... just area cars.
College green is gated now... and locked; so they cruise quietly past;
and Bishop Hooper, it would seem, has found his peaceful rest at last.
No hollow echoeing footsteps approaching from St. Michael's Gate;
No Constable on foot patrol... no need for him to quietly wait
at the old, false door to bid the Guardian of The Peace goodnight
as he patrols his beat... expecting drunks, and not a creepy fright!
Yes; Gloucester, it has changed since I patrolled those streets so long ago...
but College Green is much the same; it hasn't really changed, although
the big, old trees are pollarded... the shadows are not quite so deep...
but still... the atmosphere is here... and certainly, the chilly creep
and shiver, as his Monument looms, dark beyond St Mary's Gate...
and the wind gives plaintive moan in requiem to religious hate.

When the last Morning star softly fades in the dawning
of the pale, misty light of the last summer morning.
When the last blossom smiles in the last Sun-ray, beaming,
and the last story ends with all hopes, and all dreaming.
As the last swallow soars on the last winds a'breathing,
and the last butterfly lifts her wings, for the leaving...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Dragonfly spreads her wings in the warm glow,
for to dart her last flight in the last flowering meadow.
As the last leaves burn gold in the deep forest greening,
and the last Bumblebee dreams her last, honeyed dreaming.
As the last Swan glides down to the last river's wending,
and the last crystal spring softly flows to its ending...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Rainbow smiles through the last gentle shower,
and the last petal falls from the last fading flower.
As the last Skylark lifts, in her last spiral weeping,
And the last cloudling melts in the last azure deeping.
When the last birdsong rings through the last woodland glading,
and the last Eagle soars; her last, sad cry soft fading...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Mountain range crumbles down, swiftly breaching,
and whatever might be, is now far from the reaching.
When the last Ocean breaks her last wave, softly foaming,
and the last Sea-birds cry on the last breeze a'roaming.
As the last sands of time softly run to their dooming,
with the last precious hours of the last day swift looming...

l shall love you, still.

When the last Sun is goldening, with the last dusk a'creeping,
and the last Evening star shimmers to her last sleeping.
As the last pale moon drifts to her last wane-some flowering,
and the last twilight glim of the last day is lowering.
As the last stars grow dark, with the last night a'deeping,
and all that was once, is no more for the keeping...

I shall love you, still.

This thing called love is sweet indeed; and making love, a pure delight;
but, sometimes all one needs
is just a gentle cuddle in the night.

Laying in each others arms, somehow, makes everything seem right;
as worries fade, lost in the warmth
of gentle cuddles in the night.

Softly murmured words of love, as sleepy hopes and dreams unite;
sweet rhapsody of skin on skin;
soft, gentle cuddles in the night.

The whispering of a heartbeat; a soft lullaby, so sweet and slight.
The sweetest path to velvet slumber;
gentle cuddles in the night.

The softest sigh of gentle breath, teasing skin with faintest flight.
Luxuriant snuggling, close together;
gentle cuddles in the night.

Warm cradled in each others arms; safe, gentle cuddles in the night,
as slumber gently tip-toes in...
a murmur...
"Goodnight love, sleep tight."

Oh, sweet and pretty, careworn Lady; come and share a dream with me.
When you snuggle down at night, where do you go... what do you see?
Do you settle soft, in dreamland, like the gently setting Sun?
Or smother, in the arms of Princes ******... or Halcion?

For, they don't care about your spinning thoughts, and worries of the day;
no soft caress of fantasy; no sweet dream... that is not their way.
They cosh you chemically into oblivion, and they just don't care
that, in the morning, you will wake... and find your worries are still there.

Come softly to the borderlands of sleep... and gently tip-toe through
the mists of nothingness, and there... I promise, I shall wait for you,
or, if not me; some soft, remembered Lover? Or some past Old Flame?
It doesn't really matter who it is; the dream will be the same.

Come, slip away into the velvet night; for, here all things can be
yours...
some secret, sweet delight? Some magic place you long to see?
Some sweet, and softly sad romance that never learned quite, how to fly?
Cradle it soft in your dream, and fly with it into the sky.

To dance among the stars, whilst I caress away your lingering fears;
In this place, there is no heartbreak... in this place, you shed no tears.
In this place, is only love; in this place, is only You
and me...
and such love you find here is always perfect... always true.

Oh, sweet, and pretty, careworn Lady; come and share a dream with me.
When you snuggle down at night, where do you go... what do you see?
For I would weave you such a dream to stand time still, for just a while;
Come, slip away, and join me here...
Come, let me see your gentle smile.

If I were a better poet; then perhaps, a masterpiece, I'd write.
A lucid observation of some heady subject of our times.
The couplets structured perfectly; a deep, and meaningful insight,
but, would they hold the gentle truths I weave into my tenuous rhymes?

The answer, probably is, No... it's all down to the reason, why
I write at all. I've no ambition to seek Literary fame.
I try to touch your thoughts with mine; to share a soft, romantic sigh,
not coldly, wade through Dictionaries seeking critical acclaim.

I try to paint a picture with those words I use; a subtle hint
of colour in this grey, old world... and Watercolour is my choice.
Others lean towards Acrylics... Gouache, Oils; a sharper tint.
Perhaps, they choose more wisely... but, I much prefer a gentler voice.

For, in my poems, you will find a single thread that binds them all
together... this Romantic's dream; a spark, to light those darker days.
A soft caress for broken hearts... a small flame for those yet to fall
in love... as they most surely will. A light, perhaps... to guide the way.

These poems that I write may just be whimsy, with no merit, deep.
It really doesn't matter if they flourish... or, they fade and cease.
Yet, if  but, one small couplet slips into your dreaming whilst you sleep;
or brings a gentle smile... perhaps, it was indeed, a masterpiece.

And, that is all I seek to do; to touch a heart... caress a thought;
I have no use for Copyright; for Royalties... some Princely sum.
So, if some verse or couplet touches you the way I hoped it might...
please take it... Intellectual rights on Love belong to everyone.

In this modern world full of suspicion; lacking empathy;
political correctness, avarice, and crass mendacity
cloud the poet's vision... rosy-tinted, once; but now imbued
with caution; less some thought, or musing be abducted... misconstrued.

This soul-corroding attitude is not confined to poetry;
it sidles through relationships... blighting spontaneity,
scattering the seeds of doubt; of trust, creates a wilderness.
The true romantic doesn't stand a chance
with distrust manifest.

This is no bitter condemnation spurred by selfish, thwarted needs;
instead, a soft lament for things, perhaps, now lost... as we impede,
by selfish thoughts... misleading words; by nuances that give offence,
the flowering of true romance, thus choked by weeds of diffidence.

My poems strive to guide the thoughts... to light a path... to show the way
back to the time romance had rules; sweet etiquette, we all obeyed.
Taking one step at a time; hoping... Will it be tonight?
Each step, a breathless journey of discovery of new delights.

But, today; if I said "You're so beautiful" your thoughts might be
"He's just one more smooth-talking **** trying it on... perhaps, to see
if, with his soft, beguiling words, he manages to turn my head,
and, so bewitched... and, so besotted... I'll invite him to my bed."

Or, then... the young 'Stud' on the town... wandering hands, and wandering eyes.
Arrogant; as his perceived prowess amongst the girls, he tries.
'She's cute, and legal; great!... it really shouldn't take much more
than one or two big Margaritas...
then, my man... you're bound to score'.

So much then, for the modern concept of romance; a sad affair.
They really don't know what they're missing; I do, though... for I've been there.
The dreaming, and the longing for that special someone, in the night;
a single kiss that promises so much to come... such sweet delight.

I have loved and I have lost; I have longed for pastures new.
I have nurtured hopes and dreams quite hopelessly;
now... haven't you?
And, yet... there is one truth in all of this; if nothing else, believe
romance itself romances us... unless romance, we do deceive.

Ladies... being English; could you possibly enlighten me
concerning this phenomenon that, almost everywhere, I see?
On TV... at the Movies... in the Media; always, it's the same...
this Holy Grail of Alpha Males..."American Beauty," is her name.
Now, there's a name to conjure with... this stereotype of Hollywood;
do you REALLY think Synthetic *******, and Standard smile, look good?
They'd like to make you think it so; the truth, though... is a different game;
It might look great in photos, but... like Barbie Dolls; they're all the same.

I know that we think differently, but... surely, now your men must see
the difference in the way a natural ***** moves, exquisitely;
whilst implants... whilst defying gravity, might promise sweet delight...
I know which ones I would prefer to cuddle up to, every night.
Each, and every one of you is beautiful, in her own way,
without the need of surgery, or therapy; believe, each day
that, you are... every one... a Masterpiece of Mother Nature's plan;
Yet, still, they try to tell you, you could be improved, by meddling Man.

But, why?... this is so breathtakingly arrogant, in the extreme...
are they, then, so insecure that quoting "Fashion", they demean
you so?
Not wanting you for what you are; but what you might, well be...
eroding your self-confidence... a cruel, manipulative fantasy.
If you want to live The Dream...You have to be a Baywatch clone;
*** and the City... You must be like Carrie... or, stay home alone.

The truth is very different though... for, blinded by the Blue Cross smile;
Intimidated by synthetic cleavage..... most men run a mile.
They really would be lost, with Glossy, Eye Candy to share their life...
a sweet distraction on the side, perhaps... but, somehow... not a wife.
And, that's the Double standard, Ladies, that the Alpha Male enjoys...
Synthetic Pammy in the bedroom... a Trophy wife to show the boys.
So, don't be suckered by the Hype; always, to yourself.... be true;
for, you are beautiful, just as you are... this one won't lie to you.

OK, so you are not a perfect size eight; look at it, like this...
has any lover, yet complained?... I don't think so; for that, would miss
the point completely, of what love, and true respect are all about;
for you are perfect in your Lover's eyes... of that, there is no doubt.
So, does "American Beauty" actually exist... I'm pretty sure
She does... but, not some Media Fantasy... She's just the Girl, next door;
She's You... the One he fell in love with, hopelessly... and, at first sight;
The One who shares his heart; The One he snuggles up to, every night.

No Man is worth a Lady's tears; perhaps, at best... a tiny sigh;
her tears... too precious to be wasted on some hurt, cast thoughtlessly.
For... in truth the Man who is... will never make the Lady cry;
but rare indeed is such a Man... gifted with such empathy.

No Man should take a Lady's trust... her gift, most precious, to bestow,
and bend it to some selfish whim; or worse... such trust, to then betray.
For, without trust, then love is but, a sham... devoid of warmth, and glow,
and, soon enough, will flicker, and will turn to ashes... cold and grey.

No Man should take a Lady's heart, unless he freely gives his own
to her, in its completeness... with no hidden corner tucked away,
where some other heart might dwell; some secret love... to her not known.
Her Broken heart will never fully mend... though he might think it may.

So, Fickle Man... look in the mirror... upon you, does the shadow fall?
For, if you would deceive the Lady... then, you do betray us all.

Or.... What Love is really all about...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Dictionary definition really doesn't help us much;
"Warm liking, or affection;"
no... not quite; it lacks a certain touch
of magic...
but, when you consider it's the concept, deeply thought
out by some dusty academic; little wonder it is fraught
with mediocrity,
but, then... about the passion, and the pain;
the tightening throat, the trembling doubt;
his love of books... not quite the same.

I think, a closer definition...if, indeed, there's one at all,
is
Love, is God's Banana skin; encounter it...
you slip... you fall.
And, He must have a sense of humour; think of all the stupid things
we humans say and do, when love engulfs us with luxuriant wings.
I mean... when first in love, how our brain softens, and we cannot think
or speak, in normal conversation... into baby-talk, we sink.
The child-like actions... tickling, nibbling;
feeling we could almost fly;
Yes, you can almost hear the laughter echoing down from up on high.

Love has a different set of rules... a much more tolerant mental state;
no matter, if your lover's body fails what fashion now dictates...
or accidentally breaking wind whilst making love...
Calamity!
Collapsing in each others arms... both giggling, uncontrollably.
Blind to those annoying habits we all share, it must be said;
Underwear dropped in the corner...
biscuit crumbs left in the bed;
toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle...
leaving up the toilet seat;
my last ****** razor has been used by her to shave her legs...
how sweet!

Perhaps, your definition strives to reach Romantic's heady feel
for love,
but, this is what you get... if you are fortunate;
it's real consideration for your needs; warm contentment, company.
Hearts and minds in step, together...
and that's good enough for me.
The poems and the songs of love, though charming, just cannot begin
to weave the magic found...
when you've just stepped on God's Banana Skin.

They say that if you looked across the meadows when the day was late,
you could see her standing on the rise above the old Estate;
gazing with unseeing eyes; all lost, in times long gone before;
The daughter of the Local Lord... the tragic Lady Eleanor.

Her story is a tragedy of young love slaughtered out of hand;
of Class intransigence, which, in Edwardian times, still stalked the land.
Her heinous crime? She fell in love... the blacksmith's son; she was sixteen.
Her father forbade any meeting; the Family name, she would demean.

This tragic couple met no more than once... or twice, or so they say;
the merest handful of sweet kisses... nothing else, most certainly.
For, she was watched; and when the time for shoeing horses came around...
they locked her in her room; so, of the boy, she had no sight, 'nor sound.

The story might well end here... just a first, young love, that could not be;
but there is more. Dark clouds were gathering over Europe, threateningly.
Spurred by this simple act of bigoted, parental arrogance...
the boy, heartbroken... volunteered; and marched away to fight in France.

And, in the first months of the War, at some Entrenchment... some Redoubt;
with death, he kept his rendezvous... and felt the Reaper's hand reach out.
In ****** Flanders field he lies; just seventeen, his dreams... no more;
alone out there, forgotten... but, still loved by Lady Eleanor.

When, in time, her father died, and the Estate came to her hand,
the meadow where she first had kissed the blacksmith's son was pasture land.
She saw that it was yearly ploughed, left fallow... no crop there, she said;
and, in time the poppies grew... a carpet of the deepest red.

Just like the fields in Flanders where her first, and only love still slept;
Lady Eleanor had no more loves... her faithful vigil kept
to the memory of her one, and only love... the blacksmith's son;
the true love of her life, whom she remembered with each evening Sun.

Standing, gazing... lost in time... alone except for memories.
Perhaps, of what there might have been... long lost, beneath that blood-red sea
of gently swaying poppies fading purple in the setting Sun...
they say she stood there, motionless; until the Sun's last rays had gone.

But that was long ago, although the poppy field remains today;
and Lady Eleanor died long ago; but locally, they say
if lovers meet in Flanders Acre, the name the field is known by, now;
they will remain together... always, if their whispered words are true.

And Flanders Acre holds no echo of the sadness of the past.
Perhaps, the soul of Eleanor met with her long-lost love at last.
Perhaps... together, on the rise, they watch the poppies sway and blow;
and see the lovers, hand in hand...
Yes... I would like to think it so.

She comes to me at dead of night, when I am close-wrapped in my dreams;
I see her face, I hear her name; and that is all; but yet, it seems
that I have waited all my life, for someone; could it really be
perhaps, that she is so much more than just some dream that comes to me?
Does she actually exist? this glorious creature of the night?
She comes to me with gentle, loving words that fill me with delight.
Or, is she just some sweet, ephemeral thought? perhaps a memory?
Some book once read, some film once watched;
some half-remembered symphony

of unrequited love;
perhaps, a chance encounter? Fleeting glance?
Ships that passed by in the night? Some hope of love? Star-crossed romance?
All long forgotten; lost, down through the drifting mists of passing years;
some memory remaining, nourished by such long-forgotten tears?
If so; how can I then, explain this dream? This one bright truth, that shines;
remembering the taste of her soft lips, more sweet than summer wine.
Remembering the glory of a love burned deep into my soul;
remembering, she folded me in wings of love and made me whole.

Perhaps, we were together in some other place, some other time;
perhaps, not knowing of such things; this time around, I missed the signs.
Perhaps, as yet, we have not met; but, I feel that she is there.
Perhaps, if love is kind, we may yet meet
some time, somehow, somewhere.
Oh, sad, deluded fool; I hear you say; I would not disagree
with that,
but then, I find it strange, that she should come so frequently
into my dreams; and if, she never was, or shall be; it's alright;
I know that she will come again, softly in the dead of night.

If there is but, one tiny grain of truth; some possibility
that the life force does return; ever circling endlessly
in time and space
if, this time, we chance not to meet; then I intend
that, should it take a hundred lifetimes, I shall find her in the end.
For she gives me a feeling, I have never felt, have never known;
I've lived without it, all my life; yet, softly... quietly, has grown
this instinct that she is out there;
where do I look? where do I start?
Perhaps, within the deepest, and most secret reaches of my heart.

Don't look at me.
Enveloped in your steady gaze, drowning, drowning in your eyes
whilst willpower flees as swift as sand slips through the fingers of the hand;
crumbling scruples ebb and wane, exquisite trap; sprung once again...

Don't smile at me.
I cannot tolerate your warmth; to sense, to feel... your thoughts to touch.
All instinct tells me I am lost; one soft half-smile... and all is dust.
I cling to morals; play the rules, if I succeed I surely lose...

How I could have loved you.

Don't talk to me.
During conversations shared, is there some message in your eyes?
I search for some unspoken word, perhaps imagined... never heard.
What would you say if I reveal the hidden thoughts my heart conceals?...

How I could have loved you.

Don't touch me.
l can withstand your word and gaze if I am brave; if I am strong.
But, your caress burns deep within, I long to touch your velvet skin,
soft, warm and rounded... sweet delight to taste your lips; to hold you tight...

How I could have loved you.

Don't ignore me.
The glance, smile, word; and touch denied may break my heart... but not my soul.
But, disregard has no respite... the chill caress I cannot fight.
Without you, words no longer rhyme, confused and pointless; lost in time...

How I could have loved you.

The place that I live in the heart of the Shires; they call it God's country; this County of mine.
With rolling green pastures, and wind-swept high Wolds all scattered with sheep, and forgotten by time.
A child could not wish for a happier place to play, and to grow... to learn about living;
to romp in the wheatfields on bright summer days, and, rather than take... find more pleasure in giving.

This is how I was taught in those innocent days where all were accepted... and none preconceived;
but, then I grew up and those values were crushed; but, I still hold to the truths I believed.
Why are there more words used for hatred, and envy, than ever there are used for tolerance, and joy?
Don't reach for the Prozac... just walk through my memories... experience that, which I had as a boy.

My Grandfather taught me that we are all equal...  in birth, life, and death we are all just the same.
"Shrouds have no pockets"... he said, as I listened, "It's all down to you... and how you play the game.
And what you will do with the time you are given is how they'll remember you, boy... have no fears."
and, ******* his pipe; he said, "Always remember, to just leave them smiling... and not shedding tears."

Now and again, I return to those high Wolds, and wander through meadows where I used to play;
remembering words that my Grandfather taught me... remembering wheatfields on hot summer days.
I hope that I've followed the truths that he taught me... his countryman morals that never efface;
and, if by his words, you should find some contentment... perhaps, this world might be a much nicer place.

How quickly now, has summer passed; how soon then, do the seasons turn
and Autumn is all but upon us... see, the leaves begin to burn
all gold and amber in the ailing Sun; the days are drawing in;
the damp, and chilly nights beset with creeping mists will soon begin.
A spiteful Eastern wind comes snatching at the fragile Golden cloak
that Autumn dons to hide her gauntness... wilfully, it probes and pokes
about the treetops, stripping off her modesty from shivering bones...
her cloak blown spinning, rent and tattered;
on the wind... her plundered gold.

High above the treeline, crouching darkly under quickening skies,
all swept by whimpering, fractious wind, the hollow hills, all gorse-strewn lie
so silent now... once full of laughter, where we frolicked in the spring,
tumbling in the fresh, sweet grass... it really was the sweetest thing.
But, that was then; now all is silent, but, for one sharp, piercing cry...
gazing up, I watch a Kestrel, wheeling graceful in the sky,
to hover on the wind, before her stoop... in perfect symmetry;
you said it was your favourite creature last time you were here with me.

Gazing down across the valley slumbering in the evening mist;
wood smoke curling languid, fragrant; memories of when we kissed
the last time we were here; your lips so soft, your pretty eyes so bright;
perhaps, your memories linger too... wherever you may be, tonight.
Rooks, in ones and twos, drift over; mournful calls all echoing,
as they return to woodland night-roosts, whilst the velvet dusk creeps in.
The time has come to leave the hollow hills, once more... I do miss you;
I wonder, sometimes, for a moment... do you still think of me, too?

The Sun, no more than Golden shadows lengthening in the western sky;
I turn, and walk back through wind-pillaged, rustling leaves... how deep they lie.
The torn and scattered Golden cloak of Autumn; little now remains;
the winds of change drove us apart; perhaps, we may yet, meet again.
To walk the hollow hills together... break the silence, just once more
with frolicking and laughter, and with loving... as we did before;
to watch the Kestrels hover on the wind, smell wood smoke in the air;
perhaps, next year... when Autumn dons her golden cloak...
I'll meet you there.

You say my words are beautiful; Thank You, Milady,You are kind.
They are... but thoughts; and, in my thoughts, You are always somewhere, there.
But, no surprise; for, when I write them, You dance brightly, in my mind,
and thus, explains perhaps, why words I rhyme are ever, sweet, and fair.

Yet, words I craft, are, but pale shadow of sweet thoughts I hold for You.
Such pictures that my heart would paint, cannot be compassed round with rhyme.
Such words do not exist... save, deep within the Soul... it is quite true;
and thus, cannot be written here, and I needs-must fail... every time.

Yet, though pale shadow, they may be, they have sweet virtue; they speak true;
and thus, may stand, as Portrait of a Love soft whispered, from the heart;
that cannot not dim as drifting years unwind... my tiny gift to You,
a sweet-versed Immortality; to shine, long after we depart.

These Heart-thoughts, echoing down the years; someday, should they be read by chance,
will whisper... She was truly loved; indeed, this was a Grand Romance.

Tomorrow is another day; as yet, untouched, all fresh and new;
no footsteps in the mist, no whispered memory... no thoughts of you.
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to feel the shadows softly slip away;
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to walk out in the Sun...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; a bright new page in time, and space;
perhaps, tomorrow, I may not recall your smile... your voice... your face.
Perhaps, tomorrow, thoughts of what we might have been, will fade away;
Tomorrow, then, perhaps, to turn the page at last...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, its promise is the same
as yesterday
for you are ever there, and, always, you remain
somewhere in my thoughts... a tender, sweet, unfinished Symphony,
Perhaps, tomorrow, I can write the last few notes...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; for now, your memory lingers still,
and tip-toes softly through my heart... and, I suppose it always will;
The echo of a long-lost love; how strange, such memories still stray;
Tomorrow, perhaps, I might lay your Ghost to rest...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, I know what it will hold.
No bright, warm flame of love; but, in its place... the spent, grey ashes...
cold,
of what was once, so nearly "Us." How did it fade, and slip away?
Tomorrow, perhaps, you could please set free my heart...
but, not today.

On wintering nights of bitter frost when all the warmth of life is lost;
as spectral mist swirls in the air...
I think of you with the fragrant hair.

When wind is moaning in the pines and icy fingers touch the spine,
as strangled autumn slowly dies...
I think of you with the laughing eyes.

When darkened clouds, foreboding doom, fly swift, before a leprous moon;
as hoarfrost from the blackthorn drips...
I think of you with the soft, sweet lips.

When hail, its palsied fingers train and scrabble on the windowpane;
as gables whimper under tile...
I think of you with the gentle smile.

When, on such bleak and bitter nights, primeval fear lurks out of sight,
and frightened thoughts, dark tendrils trace...
I think of you with the radiant face.

No earth-bound force can misalign the shuttered refuge of my mind.
Encompassed in that secret place...
My soft, sweet thoughts of you.

If you should climb the Limestone heights that ring the Vale of Gloucester, fair;
and follow the old Roman Fosse; within the hour, you will be where
an echo of the Old ways whispers still... beware! Yet, may remain
something of the legend that besets this place... this dark domain.
For, on the Wolds there stands a hill...
and, on the hill, there stands a wood...
but in the wood, no Rowan grows; and it is said... you really should
take care, if there, you foolish venture in... 'less, you be lost, as well;
For this is Wychwood... how well named.
Its shadowy tale, I now will tell.

lt is told... a young farmhand was cutting Hazel wands one day
to make a clutch of hurdles, for to pen the sheep... oft, want to stray.
When he was by a stand of Rowans, he espied a fair, young maid
laying in a grassy bower... bodice torn, skirts disarrayed.
Thinking she was victim of some importunement... to her side
the farmhand rushed; bent to her... and froze, as her eyes flashed open wide.
And, before his eyes, she changed... no more, blonde hair and eyes of green;
now... a dark-haired, red-lipped beauty...
Arelanna... Wychwood Queen.

Who held him, as one holds a fledgling sparrow, with her depth-less eyes...
her raven hair a'tumbling round her milky shoulders, undisguised.
She studied him with coal-black eyes, her lips made free a tiny smile...
"Come", she said, "for I have need of you, for just a little while."
And led him deep into the stand of Rowans... far, far out of sight,
and slipped her gown before him, standing red of lip, with *******... so white;
and pulled him to her; saying, "Come... for now, we shall beget a child...
a boy; to be the Wychwood King... and I shall name him... Arlafylde.

And so, the Great Rite was performed... the young farmhand... 'naught, but a pawn;
no pleasure found, 'nor offered; just a cold, sick dread of what had dawned
on this spring day which started, just like any other in the year...
but now, he watched her face beset by pleasure... and knew only fear.
She said, "You will not speak of this, or I shall bind you all in spell...
your crops will fail... your beasts will sicken, if, but one soul, you would tell."
Then, the scales fell from his eyes; alone, he stood upon the hill...
and yet, the scoring of her nails upon his back... he felt them still.

He did not speak of this again for many years... his thoughts were sealed;
until upon his deathbed, then, the Wychwood secret, he revealed.
And so the village gathered, and elected they should rid the wood
of Arelanna, Wychwood Queen,  and of her ungodly brood.
They climbed the hill with flaring links, all armed with Holy Water, too...
and circling round the stand of Rowan; therein... Holy water threw.
But not the Arelanna they expected; stumbled from the stand...
no dark-eyed, red-lipped beauty... but a wizened crone with claw-like hands.

The crone was bundled down the hill, and cast upon the village green...
and there, they hanged her out of hand... no trial... no justice to be seen.
They searched again to find the boy... 'though now, in truth; should he exist,
he would be full-grown... but they found 'naught; though nothing there, was missed.
But, what they did not know was this...  Arlafylde watched his mother dance
upon the rope; a shadowy figure in the night... not worth a glance.
Had they but seen his burning eyes; or felt his thoughts that flamed, so bright...
"Now; they shall all know, indeed, why it is they fear the night."

Misfortunes then began to happen... sudden deaths, all unexplained;
cattle dying in the pastures... thatches bursting into flames.
Pestilence and ague creeping... wells befouled, and blighted corn;
injuries that would not mend... the village cursed, and all forlorn.
And, then one day, there came a stranger; darkly cloaked, who walked with grace.
Who knocked upon the Parson's door... cast off the hood, and showed her face.
A dark-haired, red-lipped beauty; eyes as black as coal, with milky skin...
She spoke...
"I am Fenella; daughter of Arelanna... let me in."

This beauty was the first-born child of Arelanna, Wychwood Queen;
conceived in the same manner as her brother,  Arlafylde had so been;
but Arelanna cast her out... a girl-child was not her desire...
and kindly souls had found her, and had shared their home... their hearth... their fire.
And so, Fenella; 'though she had the magic, chose the shining way,
and now, had come to pay the debt she said she owed; from darker days.
She said, "Fear not; my Brother uses magic blemished with his hate;
but, I still hold my mother's instinct for this Art; t'is not too late."

Early in the morning when the Sun was fresh, and all was new;
Fenella climbed the hill to Wychwood, all alone... this thing to do.
To meet her brother for the first, and last time....which one would prevail?
Then she was lost from sight; they said a darkening cloud beset the hill...
and in it, they saw bolts of bright blue lightning, but, there was no crash
of thunder; not a sound to hear... then suddenly... a blinding flash;
and then, the cloud was gone... but where? The people could not understand...
and, there! Fenella walking down... a sprig of Rowan in her hand.

"The deed is done," she softly said, " My evil brother is no more...
'nor, is there now a stand of Rowan cluttering the woodland floor;
for, though the Rowan is a beneficial, magic tree for me;
so polluted, was it, by my mother's deeds... it could not stay.
But... I have sealed the evil in this tiny sprig for just a while...
just long enough to have it blessed; just long enough to un-defile
this little plant, so it may grow again to guard your lives once more
against the darkness you have known, against all that has gone before."

Fenella stayed, and married in the village beneath Wychwood Hill.
Her grave is in the small churchyard. Fenella is remembered still.
For, every year the children come with Rowan sprigs; which then, they lay
upon her grave; in memory still, of what she did for them, that day.
And, on the Wolds there stands a hill...
and, on the hill there stands a wood...
but in the wood, no Rowan grows; and it is said... you really should
take care, if there, you foolish venture in... because a standing stone...
for all the world... shaped like a man, stands in a clearing... all alone.

How do I begin to write and formulate a truthful verse?
How can I draw with pencilled line; what I cannot describe in words?
For who can etch the wakening dawn... the promise of a young spring day?
and who can hold a snowflake and describe it, 'ere it melts away?

These are such problems as I face each time I try to capture you
in words, or lines... it's just the same; you still elude me, come what may.
But, what is this elusive part of you which never can be found?
Is it Beauty, Radiance; Grace?... or just Charisma; sweet, profound?

The answer to this circumstance would seem a simple point of view,
the key to this conundrum lies within the way I look at you.
For I should look with Artist eyes, that calculate the shapes I see;
but I would look with lover's eyes...
and thus, am lost... so hopelessly.

The wind is gusting cold tonight, a symphony of howl and whine,
whipping callously, the straining trees; a sure, and certain sign
that soon, the storm will break upon us; see, it gathers, fitfully
to Westward, in a lowering sky...
I wish you were still here, with me.

Scurrying through the ragged, scudding clouds; the timorous, pale moon darts.
The smell of rain is in the wind; and soon then, will the fury start.
The vented jealousy the storm inflicts on nature's springtime charms;
ravishing the blossom...
how I wish you were here, in my arms.

This is no gentle, springtime zephyr, whispering softly in the trees,
some tiny, timid entity that whimpers quietly, round the eaves,
no...
this wind has a banshee wail; like souls condemned; so long since, dead;
How I wish your soft, sweet warmth
lay next to me in this cold bed.

And now, the rain is lashing at the casement, clattering the glass
obstinate in its defiance; leaded firm against the blast
of the driving, bitter rain the wind wields so maliciously;
How I wish that I could feel
your gentle heartbeat next to me.

Suddenly, the room is lit... a blinding flash of violet-blue;
a crashing clap of thunder, and I smile;
for, I remember, you
hate electric storms; and, when they came, how close you clung to me;
your face, tight buried in my chest...
another sweet, soft memory.

Much later now; the wind has spent its wrath. the rain has almost done,
the timid moon is floating in a star-shot sky; the morning Sun
will soon be climbing over fresh washed, springtime meadows... sweet and green;
But there will only be one set of footprints
where two should have been.

Perhaps, one day, we'll meet again; this love affair, perhaps... renew;
for, though the time has drifted past, I know, full well, I still love you;
and, if fate is kind, there may appear out in those meadows, green
two sets of footprints, side by side...
where only one, can now be seen.

A thousand poets spun a dream that lasted for a thousand years,
then you were born, at last, my love...
and thus, were all their hopes fulfilled.

I dreamed with them, so long ago... and, in my dream, your face was clear,
then, you were gone... like morning dew;
my peace of mind abandoned me.

Now, like the spring... you come again; alas, you are too late, my love.
For, though the memory lingers still...
I have forgotten how to dream.

Exquisitely, I burn for you...but, nothing can this hurt allay,
for I am chained, and you are free...
the Nemesis of a misty dream.

Her thoughts stand fresh upon the page, her hand is large... the letters, round;
the weaving of her hopes, and dreams, as she sails through her sweet springtime.
The clear, bright vision of the young, as yet, un-marred.... as yet, unbound
by frown that fickle fate may gift... by sadness, that may spoil her rhyme.

And so, she sails upon the dream of Love she knows, is hers to find;
broken hearts and shattered dreams for now,  lie cloaked, and far away.
Her song of Love... a Symphony, that shines so brightly in her mind;
and not a cloud across her skies, so blue; where her thoughts dance, and play.

Yet, sometimes, she may timidly, and swiftly peek into that place
as yet unknown...
the Labyrinth of sadness... where we wander, lost, and quite alone,
where Love lies bleeding... she has not yet, seen that face;
Her poem... sad; no, not for her; and crumpled, in the bin is thrown.

Young Poetess, hold firm your dream;
be true to what your heart would say,
for there are many in this world
would try to ****** your dream away.

If you asked somebody what the opposite of "Love" might be;
their answer... almost without thinking, would be "Hate"... invariably.
But, is this really so? For characteristically; both Love, and Hate
share so much intense emotion, they are hard to separate.
For one who hates, is bound in thrall to the object of their hatred,
in the way Love binds together deep emotions... never sated.
Those who hate are never free; always, by their hate... obsessed,
and, like Love, they need to have this yearning physically expressed.

Perhaps, then... Hate is not the opposite of Love, as most would guess.
Perhaps, the opposite is Separation... that true loneliness.
For Love draws us together; separation is free-falling Hell;
at best... a cold indifference;
at worst...
the creeping, dread, Death-knell
for hopes and dreams; the cruel, deliberate, isolation of a Heart;
for there, lies loneliness, depression...
there, despair must surely start.
And with despair, the heart may hide, and, for itself, a prison make;
forgetting how to give its love...
remembering only, how to take.

Perhaps, then Separation, truly, is the opposite of Love;
and yet, there are more enemies, that creep about, and softly move;
weakening a love, perhaps, neglected by complacency;
by taking things for granted...
all those little things, we just don't see.
Like Inattentiveness, Contempt; Unloving, and Destructive ways...
Corrosive Criticism; Frequent Absence, Arguing for Days;
Opportunities for Intimacy ignored, or worse... denied;
no sanctuary for a wounded Love;
just cold acceptance it has died.

These things, they are the Enemies... insidiously, they work away,
undermining what was once a strong, safe love...
until one day,
the fortress is so weakened, that some stranger, knocking on the door
will breach the last defence, and then, the Love that was, will be no more.
So, there you have the double face of love...
a cautionary tale
of how a Love might touch the sky, and then, how such a Love might fail.
For Love is all you'll ever need; but, just take heed of what you do
with Love,
for if you cherish it; Love, always will be kind to you.

Love begins with a gaze, and it ends... when, no longer,
can you meet each others eyes; holding that gaze.
That long, silent look into each others eyes...
that melts your composure, as it softly plays
with you,
as it burrows into your soft centre
and, neither of you feel you must look away;
This, then... The Look of Love; this, then... the first step,
onto the path of this sweet game we play.

How long is a Kiss? This is no foolish question;
no cunning, couched rhyme to intrigue, or deceive.
So sadly neglected... this sweetest confection;
this first lovers' contact... and, you should believe
that, when you are new at this sweet game of kissing,
this is vital knowledge that you need to know;
more so, than the pressure; the angle of head...
and where the hell then, is your nose meant to go?

The answer to this sweetest vexing of questions...
a kiss may last days, perhaps weeks, even years.
A Kiss is so Pure an Act of Intimacy...
no covert agenda; bereft, of all fears.
So complete; as a symbol of mutual possession and sweet exploration...
its impact, its risk...
almost shocking...
for you know if this is the real thing,
the moment your lips touch in that first, sweet kiss.

What gives it this power?
Could it be, that it is the first act of possession, to gently invade
our bodies?
Perhaps, the first probe of a tongue tip between opening lips...
first hot passion, displayed?
The first true commitment of one, to the other...
so far, far away from that first, lingering glance;
The first Overt risk-taking, far beyond touching
and hand-holding... these things, perhaps, were just chance.

A kiss may last but a few moments... it may last a lifetime; for, in those fleet seconds, you know,
as your lips touch for the first time, if this is the spark to ignite the first blossoming glow
of a flame to consume you, forsaking all others; a flame, that will burn evermore, in your heart.
Or, if it's no more, than a flirting distraction;
sweet, for the moment...
but soon to depart

As I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write
upon this empty sheet of paper; which path shall I choose tonight?
Shall I spin some idyll of a bold adventure lost in time?
Shall I weave a soft, and sad lament for some lost love of mine?
Or shall I draw out from my heart, some secret thought held deep inside?
A wistful smile? Or gentle tears? It is not easy to decide.

Perhaps, I've wandered, softly tugging heart-strings, just too much, this week;
maybe I should change direction for a while... but what to seek?
Idly doodling on the page; brain in neutral... not a clue;
I guess it's got to be romantic... that's the thing that I best do.
They say, I am a True Romantic; whatever that may mean... or be,
but, I am just one more Romancer; that's a closer name for me.

True Romantics are the gentle dreamers with a special gift
of vision; Literary Unicorns whose words will help the soul uplift.
True Romantics live within a special world, all spun with gold.
For romance and beauty in all things, their wondering eyes behold.
Not here a bitter tear will fall; no cruelly broken hearts be seen;
I wish I could be one of them, but... I have seen sweet love turn mean.

And, that is why I call myself Romancer... it's a different thing;
I am in love with the idea of love... but know what love can bring
when it is lost; or, worse... misused; a kiss becomes a deadly blow.
Secure, within their glittering towers; things... True Romantics cannot know.
Or, need to know; for, should their perfect world find crass reality,
then, we all lose a special something... gone, for all eternity.

I wish that I could live in their bright, Golden world, where love is true;
But, then mine too, is Golden... but, the edges sometimes fade to blue.
which holds it all in balance; it's so sad, but, there must come a time
when overwritten, soft, romantic dreaming turns to tedious rhyme.
And then, the magic is all lost; for dreaming needs a sweeter fate;
where we would be without those dreams... I do not want to contemplate.

And, still... I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write...
the page is still defaced with doodles... it's not flowing well tonight;
That doesn't rhyme. It doesn't read well. That line's *******... it won't do.
That meaning's wrong... it doesn't hang together; think of something new.
Mangled couplets, vacuous thoughts... I really think it's time to leave
this junk... perhaps, tomorrow night, a decent poem I can weave.

The velvet night is soft and quiet... a pale moon smiles from down on high;
the wind is breathing through the trees... a gently rustling lullaby.
And you are oh, so far away... in spite of this, I could not see
that you were out of reach, my Love,
and we were never meant to be.

So, let me go to sleep; for when I sleep, I always dream of you;
no doubts... no fears to haunt me in the morning when the dreams undo;
I dream that you are here with me beneath these star-besprinkled skies;
I know it is a dream, but I don't care...
just let me close my eyes.

So I might go to sleep... and there, I'll see the face I long to touch...
to kiss; to drown deep in those eyes; those eyes that whisper... say so much
without the need to speak a single word... but only dreams bring this;
your Love is just a dream away;
and just a dream away...
your kiss.

The velvet night is soft and quiet... a pale moon smiles from down on high;
the wind is breathing through the trees... a gently rustling lullaby.
The pale moon drifts on through the night, smiling down so peacefully...
and when it smiles down on you when you dream...
perhaps, you'll dream of me.

Sitting here, I muse and ponder; seeking truths... what will I find
as I wander through the echoes of the windmills of my mind?
My thoughts of you go round and round... ever circling; ever there...
It seems that you have found a weakness... this love thing just isn't fair.
For, what was once, just sweet flirtation... double meanings... small asides,
has turned unnoticed, into something else... however much it hides
behind an act quite unconvincing, that my mind attempts to tell
to my heart; a foolish ploy... because my heart knows me too well.

And, much as I would like to think l have some measure of control
of this enchanting situation; sadly, just myself... I fool;
half-heartedly believing I am not in love; it's too absurd...
my heart; soft, sweet, and treacherous, whispers "Wrong again! .... now, heed the words
you hear me speak... don't listen to your mind, it's really out of touch;
so choked with sensibility and logic; fool! you really think too much.
Heed me. I'm the only one you really should be listening to...
for, l'm the one who ends up broken... if, at length, it all falls through."

So, who do I believe? The angel, or the devil?... I'm not sure;
both whispering soft, into my ear; the windmills turn, and turn once more...
round and round; the circling thoughts now pull me deeper, deeper down
into this web of doubt; if my hopes fail, then I shall surely drown.
But then, the windmills turn again... the answer was there, from the start...
the truth of it comes shining through...
the mind is banished... for the heart.

I thought, today; perhaps, to write of Love... but, where should I commence?
Avoiding platitudes and clichés... hackneyed phrases, glib pretence.
Separating Love from Lust; close intertwined, but not the same...
the one, a sweet, embracing glow; the other... hot, consuming flame.
Each with their time and place; but, then... each one, so easy to confuse
with the other; is this love?... or sweet distraction, to amuse
each other, for an hour or so?... soft whisperings that so entreat?
Declarations of true love... or just seduction, smooth and sweet?

Far better men than I, have tried... the poets and philosophers;
the songwriters and sages, stretching back across the drifting years...
to capture the true essence of what love is really all about;
this sweetest of contagions... such a heady mix of joy and doubt.
But, I suppose that I would say that love is patient... love is kind.
It bears all things, believes all things; and nothing, but the best will find.
Love hopes all things, endures all things, and endlessly forgives pretence;
Is born of faith, exists on hope... dies only from indifference.

Love is tolerant... non-judgemental; Love will never try to find
faults and foibles others notice... it's quite true that Love is blind.
Love takes you, for what you are... not what it might want you to be;
Love will never question... Love is unaware of jealousy.
Love is when you care for someone more, than for yourself,
you care;
Love will always find a way... Love is always somewhere, there;
waiting to ensnare your heart, just when you least expect it to...
and, when it chooses you, my friend... then, there is nothing you can do.

Except, to fall beneath the spell Love weaves all softly round the heart;
except to listen to the siren song, as common sense departs.
For those who would be sensible about Love... hardly ever find
Love, as it is meant to be... this sweet confusion of the mind.
For Love is the safe haven of the deepest feelings, deepest fears;
held safe within your lover's hands... thus shared, all shadows disappear.
If you cannot be with the one you truly love... then please be kind;
Just love the one that you are with... you never know what you might find.


If you have Love, you really don't need anything else;
but, if you don't have Love... it doesn't really matter what else you do have.

The sun smiled soft and warm on Franklin County, that late, summer day;
whistling Yankee songs, the Troop marched south, past old Winchester Town.
Relaxed, yet keeping careful watch for un-horsed Rebel Cavalry
in lurk amongst the Golden Rod that cloaked The Yellow and the Grey;
Spencers cocked, their eyes alert... the pickets carefully made their way
all through the Golden clusters, which, in brushing; showered pollen down.

He was so young; upon his coat of blue, his Sergeant's chevrons shone.
His eyes were old beyond their years from seeing horror of it all.
He held small hope of better days; most of his comrades were long gone
since they first went a'soldiering; killed here, and there... one, by the one,
and, soon enough, perhaps, his turn to lie all bloating in the Sun,
and not to see, back home in Vermont; leaves burn gold in early Fall.

But, as he wandered in his thoughts; from out the corner of his eye...
a tiny movement over there... he drew his Colt Dragoon, full swift;
and there! Again... a glimpse of grey; firing twice... a faint, pale cry;
a sound, not much like Johnnie Reb; so, through the Golden Rod... waist-high,
he careful, strode; and, there... a crumpled figure... grey, most still did lie.
He reached down to the Rebel cloak; the Yellow and the Grey... did lift.

And there, he saw a Gingham gown; a girl with golden-yellow hair.
Little more then, but a child... sixteen... perhaps, just seventeen;
with blood upon her shoulder.
In the Golden Rod, all lying there...her gun... a four-gauge, squirrel flintlock...
just a toy. In deep despair,
he turned her gently over, and she whispered, with defiant stare,
"Despatch me then, you Yankee Pig... but, just be swift; and make it clean."

Her eyes were hard... they held no fear... the deepest grey, like rain-washed sea.
Just like his baby sisters'. This one was no Rebel Dixie Girl.
The cloak she wore... The Yellow and the Grey... no Cavalry, was she;
the cloak-coat, many sizes larger. This... a worrying mystery.
Were the local folk about here, rising up?... It could just be.
He watched her bite her lip, and whimper, soft... as sharp, the pain did curl.

He reached to her, and gently pulled aside the Gingham, there... to view
her wound; her shoulder shot clean through... his Colt Dragoon... a powerful gun.
He could not leave her here alone; abandonment held no virtue
for a Gentleman... but, he was just a Sergeant, making do;
and Gentlemen were Officers, a different breed... 'aye, that were true.
He lifted her up in his arms, and through the Golden Rod, walked on.

Back up the road, to where he knew, from passing... stood a cabin, rude;
built from logs of Willow Oak, but still enough for shelter, fair.
And shelter was what this girl needed, if her chance were to stand good,
for, though the ball were out of her... her wound, needs must, be cleaned; though crude
were such salves he held; no more than Battle dressings... herbs, long brewed.
But, they would have to be enough; if fever would not take her... there.

He laid her on an old, low cot, and salved her wound, all neatly dressed,
and wrapped her warm about, in her old cloak... The Yellow and the Grey;
and gently asked of her, the reason why such danger she progressed
out on the road in ambush; and her answer was much, as he guessed.
Three brothers lost at Shiloh; and revenge she swore, in black detest
of Yankees; each, and every one... bushwhacking all who passed her way.

They talked a while; he gave her water from his canteen by his side.
Her eyes now looked upon him softer... softer than before; that day.
Then suddenly... a dreadful crash... the cabin door kicked open wide...
Two Reb guerrillas standing there; two sawn-down shotguns, swift espied.
Her cry of "Wait!"..."the flash and crash... four barrels caught him in mid-stride
as he tried to give her distance from the shotguns' deadly spray.

And there, he died upon the floor of that rude hut in Tennessee;
not, for him... the Golden, early Fall in Vermont, far away.
She told them of his gentle kindness... tending her, so carefully;
and so, instead of leaving him to rot... they dug, quite willingly,
his grave, there by the wayside, where they laid him, wrapped most sturdily;
and, for his winding sheet... her cloak...The Yellow and the Grey.

The Beyondness of things... just a walk in the shadows,
down the small hours, in the dead of the night.
The Beyondness of things... that might be... but just could not be;
just out of reaching, and just out of sight.

The Beyondness of touch... The Beyondness of whispers;
Beyondness of holding you safe, in my arms;
Beyondness of sharing the laughter and sadness;
Beyondness of breathlessly, tasting your charms.

The Beyondness of watching a Sunset together...
Beyondness of hopes, and of dreams, we could share;
Beyondness of seeing you on a spring morning,
the soft sunshine pale and serene, in your hair.

The Beyondness of feeling your head on my shoulder,
Beyondness of tasting your lips, softly sweet...
Beyondness of breathing your perfume, beside me.
safe, and caressed by your gentle heartbeat.

The Beyondness of things... each one... just an illusion;
each illusion... an echo, of what might have been.
The Beyondness of things... just a ghost in the ether,
a soft requiem for those sweet, fragile dreams.

The Beyondness of things... with no end... no beginning;
a hauntingly beautiful, sad Rhapsody;
unfinished... the promise not spoilt by an ending;
still hinting perhaps, of things that, yet... might be.

The Beyondness of things... fleeting shadows of fantasy,
close-held; but, quite out of reach... to my eyes.
The Beyondness of things, soft misleading my heart;
please... just let me dream those sweet, little white lies.

The Beyondness of things... a small echo of conscience;
Watchtower of the Vanities; whispering, it seems.
The Beyondness of things... softly voiceless, that tells me
you cannot expect all the things, you would dream.

The Beyondness of things... just a shadowy echo;
regret for the losing of things, yet unknown.
A whispering breeze in the meadows of heartbreak...
The Beyondness of things...where such hope dies, alone.

The Beyondness of things... just a walk in the shadows,
down the small hours in the dead of the night.
The Beyondness of things... just the heart-thoughts, that fade
into nothingness; lost in the soft, morning light.

Is there anyone out there, I wonder; who is really wise enough
to actually know what dreaming is? I do not mean the Freudian stuff
where ******-analysts, at great expense, impose suggestions, deep;
I mean the soft, and sweet adventures that caress us as we sleep.

I do not have to be some tragically romantic, struggling poet,
in some bleak, and lonely garret; to express myself, although it
sometimes seems the words are not my own; they just drift through my mind,
an echo from some half-forgotten dream? Perhaps, some truth to find?

So; from where then, do we gather bits and pieces of a dream?
Are they just assorted hopes and longings? for, it doesn't seem
that this explains away the magic of this rendezvous we keep
just across the drifting, misty frontiers of soft, velvet sleep.

Could it be we slip into some strange dimension in the night?
a place we sometimes sense, perhaps, exists... though hidden, far from sight.
A place where all the Golden whispers of the lovers, down the years
have gathered softly; hand in hand, with all their hopes, with all their fears.

And is there, then, some shepherd, or some guardian entity to tend
this flock of lost emotions; ever watchful; on whom, they depend
to harvest gentle dreaming as we sleep; a kindredness to seek?
Perhaps, not quite an Angel; more perhaps, the Muse of whom, we speak.

Who whispers words so softly, to us; words, only our hearts can hear;
sowing seeds across the meadows of our slumber which appear
perhaps, as dreams... perhaps, as poems; either, and / or... it's the same,
for poems are but poet's dreams; it's just, we use a different name.

We cannot know... we cannot tell; the dreams glide round, caress the mind;
so, do we really need to know? Is something lost if there, we find
the truth, if there is such a thing; and does it really matter, too?
I do not need to analyse these Golden dreams I share with you.

Please stop and think, before you push away a heart in Love with you;
By chance, or by design... condemned; with no appeal, and no reprieve.
This solitary confinement of a heart... the saddest thing, it's true...
such broken hearts so rarely, fully mend; this truth, you must believe.

Unrequited love... the catalyst to countless, shattered dreams
and hopes, of what might once have been; all lost... like tears, in falling rain.
Such hearts are foolish, they are blind... they cannot see the truth, it seems;
just chasing rainbows; deafened by love's soft, seductive, sweet refrain.

If you know that such a heart loves you; be gentle, please be kind;
if you have no desire to hold that heart to you, please... tell it so,
and free it gently; please don't bruise it... and, perhaps, it might yet find
its rightful home... if not with you; then, somewhere love might bloom and grow.

For, every heart deserves the chance to soar; perhaps, to touch the sky;
if, not with you; please, set it free... 'less it should lose the will to fly.

Once, upon another time; I gazed on love with trusting eyes;
and, as the seasons came and went; I walked beneath blue, endless skies,
believing love was fair and kind to those in love... this truth was clear;
though, they said Love is never easy... wise words I chose not to hear.

Once, upon another time; across a star-drenched, velvet night,
two heart-thoughts touched in harmony; and sparked a flame to burn so bright
across the endless miles... or so, it seemed; those bright, sweet, early days
but, each rose has its hidden thorns; not seen by the enraptured gaze.

Once, upon another time; it seemed we had the dream, declared;
to walk together in the Sun; two hearts as one... two hearts that cared.
But, then... the days grew longer; and her silences became the same;
"Now you see me... Now, you don't; So, was it really just a game?

Once, upon another time; I gazed on love with trusting eyes;
I still believe that love is kind; but, then... it's really no surprise;
elusive love... a fragile hope; it has no reason, and no rhyme;
But, still, I sometimes wonder... what if ?
Once, upon another time.

He spied her in the greenwood quite by chance, one soft, bright summer day,
as he was riding to the East to muster on the Saxon Shore.
She stood in silence by a burial cairn beside the hollow way;
as he approached; she swiftly spun; drew sword,
his progress to waylay;
and, crouching like a wildcat; she hissed warning that he should obey
her command to swift disarm; and most imprudent to ignore.

He knew full well, he needs beware this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Garbed in breeches, boots, and leathern Jack, as if she rode to War;
T'was certain-sure she held not sum of summers beyond ten, and eight;
Her eyes were brown, her hair was russet; and about her throat, she wore
a shimmering, plaited Golden Torc; the like of which he'd seen before.
A Cypher, Royal; and imperious was the sentiment she bore
as she held him, sword-point to his throat, whilst she resolved his fate.

With wry smile, he chose to forbear this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Her eyes were cold; her sword-tip wavered less than single breadth of hair
from his throat.
A breath too sturdy, and this girl would spit him, neat.
And in her eyes, he saw writ plain, that he would die if he should dare
dispute, beyond a single heartbeat; her advantage, standing there;
and so, he scarce drew breath at all, yet held her gaze with clement stare.
T'would be no hardship to disarm her, yet he chose to be discreet.

Brave, was this one, beyond compare; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Her voice was was calm; her words were Iron;
"What business have you here, this day?"
He smiled; "I ride for Camulodunum to join my squadron there.
Artorius, the Dux Bellorum musters warriors in array
to drive the Saxon raiders back into the sea in dread dismay.
Icily, she whispered, "Vortigern," her word sharp with inveigh.
"I have a score to settle there; so I shall join this bold affair."

He gazed at her with questioning stare; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

A ****** slaughter on the Saxon Shore was no place for a maid;
for, were she taken; countless rapes, then death would come from Saxon hands.
He laid this to her, and she smiled; he saw that she was not afraid,
and pointing at the little cairn, this truth before him she then laid.
Her parents and her sister lay dead here; by Vortigern betrayed
to his Saxon Mercenaries so he might seize her father's lands.

But, when they struck, she was elsewhere; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

He asked her name; she smiled, "I am Elen; true heir of Eudaf Hen;
once High-King of Eastland, from Metaris to the Tamesis.
The Saxons fell upon his Hall and slaughtered all of my Kinsmen;
then they defiled my sister Madrun, time, and time, and time again,
until she fled from them by dying; she held 'naught, but four and ten
summers to her. This is why those vermin shall feel my blade's kiss.

With her; dispute would stand nowhere; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

And so, they rode away together from the greenwood that fine day;
and soon enough, before them lay the spreading Fens, so flat and wide.
And as they rode, her eyes were on him; and t'was soon then, she did say
"Come, tell me of your name; for all I know is, you are cavalry."
He smiled; "My name is Heylan of Dumnonia; from far away.
Your purpose of revanche discomfits me, it cannot be denied."

She held his eyes in steady stare; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

She quietly said, "Make no dispute on this; it is my stern intent
to prosecute reprisal on these vermin, and acquit the score.
With War-helm, and thus garbed; my *** is certainly not evident;
and you shall tell to Dux Bellorum - 'an he chooses to dissent,
that I am your Squire; and in this, t'is, as like, he shall relent;
so I might ride your Squadron and lay mayhems on the Saxon Shore.

So; her design was wove with care; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

He saw there was no purpose to lay thwart; it was a hopeless stand;
and so they rode on through the Fens all down to Camulodunum,
to join Artorius's Host; to wager all for their homeland;
this Legate of Ambrosius, who freely chose now, to withstand
the onfall of the Saxons, in denying them one stride of strand.
They formed behind the sand dunes as they waited for their hour to come.

Helm-cloaked; not one man lay forth stare at this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Out to sea, eight keels came on; three hundred swords in sum, or more;
the Host outnumbered four to one; such odds, they held as trifling thing;
The Long-ships ground onto the beach; the Saxons leapt onto the shore
with long-axe, sword, and buckler raised; intent on making ****** War.
The cavalry wing commanders held. Let them come further, to make sure.
The trap was sprung; they charged the Saxons. Blade upon blade now did ring.

Of peril, she seemed unaware; this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

She hacked the Saxons down like tumbling corn before the summer mow;
blood-spattered, as she was, from Helm to boot-heel in that slaughtering.
He rode to shield her from the Saxon cross-bow men who made winnow
of such comrades, who, impetuous; held neglect for ebb and flow
of battle; and in grip of blood-lust, heeded not, such lurking foe.
As like, did she. He called; then heard a cross-bow bolt make deadly sing.

It struck her in the back, full square. this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

The bolt full lifted her from saddle; cast her down upon the strand.
Hacking down such Saxon **** as mired his progress, he made ride
to where she lay, all crumpled, face-down in the reeking, ****** sand.
He knelt, and gently turned her over. Wincing, she reached out her hand
and touched his face.
She whispered, "Christus! This is not quite what I planned."
Her brown eyes dimmed, and with a gentle sigh, the Princess Elen died.

He gazed; his eyes wet with despair at this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

He never saw the Saxon House-carl; never saw the long-axe swing;
he scarcely felt the razor-sharp blade cleave his flesh down to the bone.
He pulled himself across to where she lay; he could not feel a thing
below his flanks. He was so cold; he took her hand, his sight veiling;
and there, beside her, Heylan of Dumnonia died, that bright morning
upon the Saxon Shore; its shining sands now blood-stained, and wind-blown.

They found him, cold, and hand-clasped there with this Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Artorius, the Dux Bellorum gazed, with sadness in his face
down at the hand-clasped pair; such wasted youth, and here, no sense to see.
He ordered them both borne away; no grave-pit for their resting place;
No; they would sleep as they had died; hand in hand in their embrace.
Betwixt the sand dunes and the sea, they raised a cairn with careful grace
for Heylan and Elen to sleep the great sleep of Eternity.

Perhaps, though... in another time, in another place, they'd meet somewhere.
the warrior Heylan, and Elen... the Girl with the Sunlight in her hair.

Lady, why so sad? Does disillusionment sit heavily
upon you, in your hopes of Love? Do you fear you'll never see
the dream you dreamed, when you were just a little girl...
of Love, so true?
Don't be sad... remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
does love You.

Lady, why so sad? Are you neglected, are you all alone?
No-one to buy you flowers, and, no message on the answerphone?
A mug of chocolate, and a Mills and Boon, when one more day is through?
Don't be sad... remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
does love You.

Lady, why so sad? Do you think that your Prince may never come?
Surrounded by smooth-talking jerks... predatory, and really dumb,
imagining an easy conquest... (and, she would be grateful, too;)
Don't be sad... remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
does love You.

Lady, why so sad? Princes are just not what they used to be.
They usually love themselves much more, than they'd love You...
it seems to me
you need to kiss an awful lot of Frogs to find a Love that's true;
Don't be sad... remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
does love You.

Lady, why so sad? There really is a Special One, out there
for each, and every one of us, and when you find Him... you won't care
whether He's a Prince or Frog; it matters not... if Love is true.
Don't be sad... remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
does love You.

Lady, don't be sad... remember... tomorrow, all is fresh, and new;
Love has a habit of appearing when you least expect it to,
and, when you think nobody cares... so sad, so lonely, feeling blue;
just remember,
someone, somewhere out there,
really does love You.

Silently the mist is rising, wreathing pale, and icily.
Creeping furtive, through the Levels; stirring ancient memories.
Drifting ghostly, round the willows... meadows fading out of sight;
I feel a sudden, eerie shiver, 'though it is not cold tonight.
The phantom, misty fingers rise up from the Rhynes, so dark and deep,
that flow so slow, and silently; what awful secrets do they keep?
For here, there have been battles fought; how many warriors moulder here?
For here, there has been slaughter done, with naked sword and bloodied spear.

It is whispered that, on such a night as this; they prowl abroad.
Old men hereabouts, will talk of lights... and sounds that may be heard
across the Levels that are set about the Tor of Glastonbury;
but, are they ghostly campfires... or just flickering marsh lights that they see?
Is that the sound of restless, lowing cattle drifting on the air?
Or, booming of the war-horns of some long-dead army, far out there
across the Levels, in the wreathing mists that rise out of the Rhynes?
Just imagination... or an echo out of darker times?

And, when the moon is floating pale, above the Tor at Glastonbury,
with fog and mist arising on the Levels... drifting eerily
through shivering willows; you can sense the veil between the worlds is thin...
Is there something out there... just a breath away; so faint... so dim?
Is that, again... a War-horn... or some far-off foghorn out to sea?
Is that the clattering of some sluice... or harness of ghost cavalry?
and, hush; is that faint, lonesome call some distant night-bird on the wing?
or Albion in lament; as she grieves soft... the passing of a King?

For hereabouts, they say, was Avalon; does something, then remain?
Some memory of what was here before the darkness snuffed the flame?
This last, bright hope of Albion... this fleet, and final flowering
of what was once... but now is lost. Of Arthur... Once and Future King.
The Matter of Britain, this is called... it echoes still, about this place;
perhaps, a shadow of a long-lost memory... some ghost to chase;
and you can almost feel the Dragon's breath... that blood-red badge of Gwent;
and is this just a Rhyne-mist... or enchantment, strange... by Merlin, sent?

Perhaps, this is not just a timid breeze that whispers in the night,
turning back the willow leaves to glisten silver, by the light
of the pale, thin-slivered moon... so faint and pallid, high above;
could it be soul of Guinevere lamenting for her love?
Or, perhaps, the four enchantresses who laid the King to rest
upon the barge, and sailed into the setting sun, far to the west;
Lamenting softly of this Golden age... its time, which now had run...
gliding out across the waters... gliding down to Avalon.

Out there, somewhere... perhaps, there is some tranquil Mere, all lost from sight;
a shining mirror wreathed in mist, all hidden by the cloak of night,
and in its silent, sombre depths; does She still sleep, all safe from harm?
The Lady of the Lake... Excalibur held safe, within her arms?
Waiting... waiting... with its awesome power a'slumber, until freed;
awakened by the call of Albion in her darkest hour of need.
Will... once more, the Lady's slender hand raise up Excalibur
aloft, above the misty, glassy surface of the Silvered Mere?

This then... the Legend of the Levels circling about Glastonbury.
Of things that were, or might have been... of things that may yet come to be.
All lost from sight; all lost in mists of ages, faded out with time...
the willows tell no stories, and who knows the secrets of the Rhynes?
And yet, this really is the strangest place; there is a presence here...
for, when the ghostly mist is rising, and the moon is pale and clear,
it is so easy to imagine things once here, but long since gone...
to wander through what might have been; deep in the Mists of Avalon.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
Probably not, it is gently concealed.
Each time that l see you, it tries to betray me
by hinting at feelings it should not reveal.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
Should I, in fact, let those secrets now show?
Whispering thoughts that you may not want from me;
whispering thoughts you may not want to know?

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
Wilfully stubborn; swift, tearing aside
the curtain, long cloaking the flame tended secretly for you;
the feelings, so barely disguised.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
How I would love to feel you, sleeping there
beside me, as I wake; your head on my shoulder;
the pale Sun's caress, softly kissing your hair.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
How I long just to walk out in the Sun
hand in hand with you across the sweet meadows
where grow all the soft words of love, just begun.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
You are the bright, Evening Star in my skies.
Enslaved by your grace, I am hopelessly lost;
captured by your gaze, I drown in your eyes.

Here is my heart; can you hear it, soft whispering?
Picturing you bathed in soft candlelight;
your skin, honey golden; eyes dark, full of mystery.
Heart-stopping beauty; exquisite delight.

Here is my heart can you hear it, soft whispering?
Wanting you close, at the end of the day;
weaving together, our dreams in the darkness;
gently exploring sweet games lovers play.

Here is my heart can you hear it, soft whispering?
Probably not; just a friend there, you see;
but, everyone has an odd moment of weakness
one day, perhaps, you could save one for me.

If you care to take a while, and wander through my poetry,
you will unearth a serious defect in my personality;
politically incorrect... for sweet romance, is all to me;
in love with the idea of love... these days, to some... pure blasphemy.

And further, to compound this fault... condemned by modernist ideas
of self-gratifying conquest... scant romance found there, I fear;
but, then... the Predatory Male, appears to me, both coarse, and blind;
I too, may want your body... but, also... I desire your mind.

It's all a question of respect... of attitude... of empathy.
No urge to be one of the boys... preferring feminine company.
Adoring females of all ages... slim or cuddly; tall... petite...
each has her own alluring charm... so different, yet, so complete.

I have no time for those, amongst my *** who feel they must demean
romance with Weasel words of love, they neither really feel... or mean.
To bed the Lady with all haste; no prologue... just the sweaty sprawl;
no soft caress of her emotions... thus, do they betray us all.

This, then... a sort of Requiem, for how romance is meant to be.
Expression of the sentiments... the temper of sweet mystery.
Consideration of emotions, others have... not just your own:
the breathless touch of fingertips... of sweet delights, as yet unknown.

You may well say I am a dreamer, and, with you I would concur;
but... my world of dreams and hopes... or yours... which one would you prefer?
My world of thoughts will not betray you, hurt you... or, your trust, defile;
the very worst that it can do is leave you  with a wistful smile.