I have a curious tale to tell; a tale, perplexing... still; to me.
was it a truth? Was it a dream? Some sleepy summer fantasy?
Across the hills... as Wordsworth wrote; I wandered, lonely as a cloud;
the only sounds, the whispering breeze, and bumblebees a'buzzing loud.
And, in the clear, hot, Mayday Sun soft beaming from a cloudless blue,
I sat beside an ancient wall, and gazed across the vale below.
The Harebells kept a silent, swaying vigil; I began to doze;
what happened then? Was it a dream?
Or, was it really true... Who knows?

For, suddenly, upon the wall; a female Kestrel landed light,
and gazed at me with eyes as black as sin... so soft, and shining bright.
And this most wild, and beautiful of all God's creatures; carefully
studied me, a little while; then quietly turned...
and spoke to me.
"We know of you" she softly said, "This minstrel soul you would conceal.
You weave and rhyme of truths men have since cast aside... no longer feel;
You craft the tales of love, unsullied by the shadows of base lust;
and, thus...
your words will prosper long beyond when all else, turns to dust."

"You rest upon a sacred mound, where once, the Fires of Beltane shone;
and Lammas torches, here, were lit, to welcome back the Harvest Sun.
T'is not by chance, I find you here. Earth Mother now, has summoned you
back to this place where you and I were once, together... long ago.
For, it is she who gifted you with words to stroke the Female heart,
as you stroked mine upon the Eve of Beltane, and I... for my part
was not ever thus; this slender, hovering form you sometimes see;
for, I was once your love; and once again, in time...
so shall it be."

Why, then; do you think it, by chance... this precious gift by which you spin
and weave the words, is out of nothingness? Or, does it now begin
to blossom in your thoughts? The ancient ways have slumbered in your heart,
until at length, their time came round again... yet one more page, to start.
Think upon the times you watched a Kestrel wheeling in the blue,
clear skies of summer;
just recall how such a sight enchanted you
when you were, but a man-child; and yet, even then... you were aware
that there was something others could not see;
there was some secret, there."

"And, as you slowly came of age... you were weighed, and measured, too...
in the balance; and were not found wanting... so, the gift to you
of golden words, Earth Mother made; no imposition could be brought;
for you possessed a natural empathy... and more... a gentle heart.
Before you put the question... I shall tell you of this circumstance.
I was once handmaiden to Earth Mother, at the Beltane Dance;
but, fell in love... a Minstrel boy; a sacrilegious blasphemy;
Condemned; transformed, into a Kestrel
flight-bound for eternity."

"And I have roamed the depthless heavens... I have searched through countless years,
alone; save, for a breaking heart... for, Kestrels cannot weep sad tears.
But now, it seems, indeed... Earth Mother has, at last, forgiven me...
that I should find you here, where, long ago, our love flowered, fleetingly."
The Kestrel lifted off the wall, to glide and rest upon my arm;
I gently reached out... touched her head; her black eyes showed she feared no harm.
She said, "Yes... I shall wait for you above the clouds... beyond the sky;
and when your span is spent, then, we shall be together... you and I."

"To dance once more about the Beltane Fires without a fear, 'nor care;
to be... as once, we should have been... the Moonflowers braided in my hair.
Like the seasons come and go, the circle turns and turns again
and, it shall come to pass that we shall share the warm glow of Beltane."
Suddenly... a laboured buzzing tugged me to reality;
a pollen-laden, fat, and ponderous bumblebee flew over me.
And, of the Kestrel... not a sign; as if she had been never there;
it really must have been a dream...
too much warm sun... too much fresh air!

And so, I climbed back down the hill... all lost in thought, and wondering.
My poems do seem favoured by the Ladies... there's a curious thing.
And in the sighing breeze, the Harebells shivered... fragile, blue, and pale.
A name, it seemed... came whispering like a memory, across the vale...
Belith.
Unknown... yet half-remembered; very strange... but very true;
and then; upon the breeze... the faintest echo of a Kestrel's mew;
and in the sky, a tiny cloud... for all the world, it seemed to me...
shaped, just like a hovering Kestrel,
in the Blue infinity.

I find myself just gazing up into that endless, clear, deep blue,
and, hear myself soft, whisper... as the tiny cloud melts from my view,
on my lips... the ancient Celtic name I feel, but do not know...
Belith...
yes; on some Eve of Beltane, we shall share the firelight glow.
And, that... then, is this curious tale. I cannot say that it is true.
I can, but tell it as it is... perhaps, a dream... I just don't know.
On the hill the Harebells shiver in the breeze from off the vale;
silent witnesses, who watched it all...
but cannot tell the tale.

Above a thousand years have passed, since fires on Beltane Eve shone clear,
to welcome in the Summer, in the circling seasons of the year.
and, what... of Belith?
no more than some faint breeze, all whispering, soft
amongst the fragile Harebells?... Or, the echo of a thing long lost?
The Old Ways are still all about us; the circle turns, and turns again.
The ancient, Pagan cycles... long suppressed; still, silently remain.
Now, strangely... when I see a Kestrel; I know I will surely find
that pretty, Celtic name... Belith;
soft whispering, somewhere, in my mind.

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.

Spring creeps softly through the Shires in this year of our Lord, 1651.
Will peace ever reign in this blighted land? T'is nine long years since War began.
A year ago, they killed a King, and brother still fights brother;
Cromwell still sequesters all; and plots they yet uncover.
The Drums of War will sound again this year,
of that, I have no doubt;
so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.

Before this ranting Yorkshire Squire usurped a Crown, and sparked a War,
we rode out in the dewy fields and laughed, and loved; alas, no more.
The only riders - troops of horse, with pistols cocked, and flashing blade,
with caps of iron, and coats of Buff; compatriots are hanged, and slayed,
Still, none in Whitehall cry "Enough of this!"
'Nor will; I have no doubt;
so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.

Last Autumn, when the Flag was raised far north in Dunbar town,
when Leslie fought with Monckton; the slaughter was profound.
Three thousand dead, ten thousand trapped; many of those to be
as Traitors to the Commonwealth, swung on Tyburn tree.
Good King Charles is marching south, but Cromwell follows close,
with Hamilton and Lambert to engage the Royal Host
at Worcester, where we all may die;
of that, I have no doubt;
so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.

I have fought at Edgehill, and at Chalgrove, in the Vale
of Whitehorse; and at Lansdown, where our courage did not fail.
And I have fought at Cheriton; but, yet, on Naseby field,
struck by a Roundhead musket ball; my stand, I had to yield.
Yet, you, my love, have stood with me, have stitched my wounds,
have held me close
through bitter nights of pain and fear; to leave again would hurt the most.
I must gird on my sword again;
t'is soon; I have no doubt;
so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.

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.

Upon the page, a silky waterfall of words in gentle rhyme;
perhaps, a whisper from the heart that love will always find a way.
All woven soft; to steal a Lady's heart?
Oh, no... not by design;
a mere caress of secret dreams; soft promise of a sweeter day.

A whispered dream perhaps, of things, now lost... or sweeter things, to be
imagined.
Love, not quite yet blossomed; softly cloaked in rhyme-bound word.
Some tiny glow the heart discovers, that the eye just does not see;
the mind skips on, quite unaware of this sweet song the heart has heard.

Is that a plaintive wish upon a star that may come true, one day?
Perhaps, a wistful hope that special someone really does love you.
A soft, sweet memory reborn; long since forgotten... locked away;
soft words, all tumbling gently down the page...
is there a whispered clue?

And, in the velvet darkness, as you sleepy, drift... warm in your bed;
a whisper tip-toes through your heart...
"Is that what I really read?"

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.

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.

Beautiful... desirable;
in the sweet green grass... serene, she lay
in the wild flower meadow with a soft smile, and lash-lowered eyes.
A gentle zephyr stirred the dappled shade beneath the old Oak tree
as languorously, she wove a Daisy chain beneath the summer skies.

She whispered;
"If you carve our names in that old tree... here is a token
of our love...
this pretty garland of these blooms that I've been tending;
but, please don't carve them in a heart... for hearts can easily be broken;
carve them within a circle for me... a circle strong, and never-ending."

He gave a little gentle smile; kissed her, and moved towards the tree,
pocket knife in hand, he carefully chose where, her desire, to place.
She lay amidst the meadow flowers, watching... smiling dreamily
as he cut into the bark... a perfect circle there, to trace.

Therein, he carved the twin initials strong and deep, for all to see.
A monument to love on that soft, summer day with skies so blue;
but, as he made the last cut... his blade slipped... quite accidentally,
and nicked his finger, where a bright red drop of blood welled forth, and grew.

She whispered;
"Let me kiss it better..." and raised his finger to her lips;
the crimson droplet on her tongue-tip held a sensual, salty taste.
She pressed her body into him; gently nudging with her hips...
the future might hold anything... such time they had, was not for waste.

His forty-eight hour leave was almost spent... this was their last, sweet day
together,
for who knows how long? Tomorrow he returned to base
to ride the Bombers' Moon night skies... to chance luck over Germany;
his wager with The Reaper, but no clue to tell of time, or place.

Beautiful...desirable;
in the sweet green grass... serene, she lay
in the wild flower meadow... with a soft smile... and lash-lowered eyes.
She pressed his hands upon her *******; and not a word then, did she say
as gently, they made slow, sweet love beneath the clear blue, summer skies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~

Beautiful... just like her mother;
she stood beneath the old Oak tree
and traced the initials in the circle carved so many years ago.
She never knew her father... lost on Op's out over Germany...
he never had the chance to hold his daughter, or to watch her grow.

He never had the chance to stand again beneath the old Oak tree
in the wild flower meadow with her mother, on a summer's day;
the meadow where her life began, amidst the Daisies... endlessly
blooming 'neath a summer sky, so long ago... so far away.

Beautiful... just like her mother;
she stood beneath the old Oak tree
and from her purse, she took her father's pocket knife... the very same
one he used, to carve... A hand upon her shoulder, laid, gently...
she smiled into her lovers' eyes... "It's still here... I'm so glad we came."

"Shall we do the same? I know they'd like us to, if they can see
us down here; it's really something that I'd rather like to do."
And so, he smiled, and took the pocket knife... and started, carefully
to carve both their initials there, beneath the circle... sharp and true.

Beautiful... desirable;
in the sweet green grass... serene, she lay
in the wild flower meadow... with a soft smile... and lash-lowered eyes.
A gentle zephyr stirred the dappled shade beneath the old Oak tree
as languorously, she wove a Daisy chain beneath the summer skies.

She whispered;
"As you carve our names in that old tree... here is my token
of our love... this pretty garland of these blooms that I've been tending;
but, please don't carve them in a heart... for hearts can easily be broken;
carve them within a circle for me... a circle strong, and never-ending."

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.

It just isn't fair.
You know that you enchant me so... you always take my breath away
and, though it's just a flirting game; the rules... I struggle to obey.
The mind-games that we play are so unfair... the upper hand, you've gained,
you use your femininity covertly... subtly... so constrained.
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
That faintly hinting look at me... head slightly down, your eyes inviting,
gazing up, through lowered lashes... so bewitching... so exciting.
And, again; the slightly tilted head... the offered throat, so white,
the glance, from corner of your eye... a promise of such sweet delight?

Why do you do it?It just isn't fair.
When you speak; your tone of voice... a touch too low... soft, and delighting.
Phrases full of double meanings; not suggestive... just enticing.
Words that may be full of promise... then, again.... perhaps, it's me,
just hoping that is what you meant... Addictive, cerebral ecstasy!
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
Your subtle use of body language; so subliminal, one would think
it isn't there... and yet, there's something prodding at my Male instinct,
with which, as every Female knows... not over-gifted, is the Male;
I bravely try to read the signs... eternally condemned to fail.
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
The Coup de Grace of all these things, is when you put the pressure on.
The slightly parted, moistened lips; you win... conclusion... so foregone.
A gentle touch... lean too far forward... just a glimpse of warm cleavage;
***** softly brushing arm..."Accidental" leverage?
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
I really don't know why I play your games; you know I always lose
this mental play of love-making... for that, is what true flirting is.
You brighten up the tedium; the only danger I can see,
is that, one day, I may just fall in love with you... quite hopelessly.
Perhaps, that's why I let you do it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Soft-cradled in the afterglow, you gaze at me with shining eyes,
and whisper...
"Will you always love me?..."
and l smile, soft... secretly.
That sweetly subtle trap where many fall, if they are so unwise
to say:
"Of course l will..."
"You know l will..."
perhaps, too hurriedly.

No matter, that one truly means it... what the Lady longs to hear
are all the words, perhaps, thought cissy...
straight from out a Mills and Boon;
"Without You, life is, but pale shadow..."
"Life itself, is not so dear
to me, as You will ever be..."
soft counterpoint to Love's sweet tune.

No matter what my thoughts might whisper;
heart thoughts always, will be true.
And, so...
l look into your eyes, and listen to my heart awhile;
Far easier, to forget to breathe...
than a moment spent not loving you;
but, then... you knew that all the while, my love;
l see it in your smile.

So, here it is, that Empathy again...
it is no great surprise.
She falls in love, through words She hears...
Men fall in love...
but, through their eyes.

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.

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 Summerlands of Avalon cradle soft, the Legend of
a tragedy of love betrayed; a broken heart... a sleighted love.
Woven all about a tragic tale... The Lady of Shalott;
the Maid of Astolat... Elaine, who died for love of Lancelot.
Her love, so sadly unrequited; fading from a broken heart,
she lay down on her barge beset with lilies... soon, away to start
all down the glassy, reedy river towards the spires of Camelot;
singing her last, soft lament... the tragic Lady of Shalott.

And it is said, her melody... her last sad breath... away, slipped soft
far above the towering spires to whence, the skylarks wheel aloft.
Alone, unloved... this sweet young hope... no more now, than a sad refrain;
the merest shadow of this love, so cherished by the fair Elaine.
Gently gathered in the folding arms of the soft, western breeze;
lovingly borne back to earth to rustle in the Willow trees.
The Whispering Winds of Astolat... an echo of the arrogance
of men in matters of the heart; for which, there can be no defence.

For it is said, that when some girl besotted by soft, honeyed words
whispered by some smooth seducer; does believe that she has heard
some promise of true love... and so, to give herself to him... agrees;
then come The Whispering Winds of Astolat, soft-rustling in the leaves.
Or, if some crass Lothario intent on making conquests, new
decides to bed some older, wedded lady for an hour or so,
preying on the flattery he thinks that his attentions bring...
around the eaves, The Whispering Winds ot Astolat will sadly sing.

Take heed, when you decide to dally for a while... some interlude
of sweet distraction;  just be sure the words you use, do not delude
the lady into thinking that your words mean something they do not...
or, you too may be unmasked by The Whispering Winds of Astolat.
And, when the moon is floating high, and you romance a lady fair;
remember then... a broken heart can never fully be repaired.
Remember then, the Legend of The Whispering Winds of Astolat;
be sure you do not waken in her... another Lady of Shalott.

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.

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

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."

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.

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.

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?

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.

He gazed in quiet ponder at the empty page; what then... to say?
The Englishman sat pensively, as dusk soft-cloaked the fading day.
There was so much... so many words to her, he wanted to display;
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

He watched the candle flame a'dancing, but his thoughts were far away;
still, she tip-toed through his heart with each day passing; come what may.
The merest brief encounter; but, the thought of her would always stay...
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

The Englishman gazed, lost in thought; the candle softly burned away.
Upon the page before him, not a single word, as yet, did lay;
for, knowing of the circumstance, what then, to her, could he say?
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

He wore a coat of Red; his rank, in Gold... all brazen, on display.
Mustered in to quell the Rebel Colonists without delay...
Her Kin...
and thus, the game of love, alas, was not theirs, here to play,
The Lady from The Colonies... The Redcoat from so far away.

For Independence was the cry; and any price, they then, would pay...
these Colonists of New England; to rid themselves, without delay,
the impositions of Fat George; his taxes, they would now gainsay...
The Lady from The Colonies watched this, and wondered in dismay...

Would this lead to Revolution? Who would take the prize away?
This Englishman she fleeting met, and flirted with, that summer day?
Who touched a place deep in her heart; such feelings she could not allay;
The Lady from The Colonies... how could she choose, and not betray?

Her brothers, three... were Patriots; preparing then, to march away
to Boston, for, to trounce the Redcoats... throw them out in disarray;
but, there too, was the Englishman... his orders, ready to obey...
Mustered on the thin strand below Bunker Hill that bright June day.

The Redcoats charged Breed’s Hill... the Patriots gave fire, without delay.
The Englishman was struck firm by a musket ball, all flying stray.
His bright Red coat grew redder yet, as in the summer grass he lay...
he could feel no pain... but, he knew his life soon, would slip away.

And, as he watched the sky, all summer blue, slow fade to misty grey...
he pondered on what might have been, had she not been so far away;
but then...
somewhere... sometime... somehow,  his fading wish mahap, would stay...
The Lady from The Colonies might meet with him...
another day.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

I dreamed of You, again last night... this must be getting serious.
We seem to meet most every night, in some soft, sweet, Romantic tryst.
Last night, it was a Golden Island... not a soul there... only us;
a Golden Land... a Golden Goddess... how could Mortal man resist?

You took me gently by the hand, and led me to a secret glade,
sun-dappled; with Hibiscus blossom perfume wafting in the air;
and, languidly reposed upon a bed of soft, rose petals laid...
then, opening arms with feline grace, desired for me to join You, there.

Your honeyed skin... so velvet soft; Your eyes were filled with mystery.
I fed You cherries...plump, and succulent;
Your lips softly drew them in.
You trickled wine into your navel...smiling soft, and sensually...
inviting me to drink... to lap the Golden nectar from Your skin.

I bent to Your desires, Your needs... this sweetest game we now, would play...
That Bee is buzzing loudly...
****! ...
Alarm clock!...
and... You fade away.

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.

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.

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.

I am the text that tip-toes gently down your screen late in the night,
soft rhyming of the longings, and the dreams we hold... those hopes, so bright.
Perhaps, to tug a heart-string... strike a chord... bring memories back to you,
a dream you may have had... may want to have... no-one, but you can know.

Anonymous in Cyber-font; I can be almost anything
that you would like me to be, for you;  whatever you may want... I'll bring
into your dreams... your friend... your lover; there is nothing I can't be
for you... a wild romance, perhaps? Some sweet and secret fantasy?

I may well be the Evening Star you wished on, when your heart was sad;
I may well be the whisper in the wind... perhaps, the one you had
imagined you had heard sometime... when you felt you were quite alone,
and no-one cared; come, touch my thoughts... entwine them with those of your own.

For I can weave a Grand Romance for you... just open up your mind
and let me come to you in dreams; who knows what magic, there... we'll find?
Come, fly with me into the night; to where... is really up to you;
shall I become some secret, longed-for lover for an hour or so?

Or, perhaps... re-light some old flame fondly held-close in your heart?
whatever you want... it is yours... because, here is the clever part...
You can abandon me so quickly...that's just one keystroke away;
or, cut and paste me to a file, to come again... another day.

For, I am always out there in the night...and you can come to me,
and share my thoughts and feelings... and my dreams, quite unconditionally;
and, when you feel sad, or lonely... then, in dreams, again we'll meet:
and when you've had enough of me...
you just press Alt... Control... Delete.

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.

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.

Tantalising... fantasising...
the pencil waits, in lingering bliss
above the ****** paper spread impatient for its graphite kiss.
Which path to follow?
Tugging heart-strings? Or a gentle, wistful smile?
the words... a soft caress, with which, the Ladies' memories to beguile?
Of loves that are... or might have been?
Of dreams, that may yet come to be?
of lovers whispering in the night; breathless, in their intimacy?


Tantalising... fantasising...
eyes slip slowly down the page;
not quite flowered to Womanhood... impatient now, to come of age.
"Will it be like that for me? Will he whisper words like these?
Will we be happy?... will he love me?
Oh, l hope so... Oh, yes... please."
She dreams the dreams, the poets spin of love;
her innocence... so sweet;
for, in her sunlit world... no broken hearts;
not there... do lovers cheat.


Tantalising... fantasising...
thinking, "Oh, that's rather sweet;
so gentle and romantic; perhaps, tonight...
someone, I'll meet,
who's really special... thinks, like that; warm and kind; a gentle kiss...
and then, perhaps... is that the time?
Oh... does my *** look big in this?
Is my make-up picture-perfect? Should I wear a shorter skirt?
A touch of perfume in my cleavage?
How much to drink?... How much to flirt?"


Tantalising... fantasising...
just skip-reading down the screen;
kids in bed, the ironing done; ten minutes off to sit and dream.
The old man snoring in the armchair... lose herself in Cyberspace;
when was that young, and handsome, **** love of hers...
by him, replaced?
She smiles, and looks back to the screen... a tiny poem, sad and sweet,
scrolling up... then... suddenly, it bites... and her heart skips a beat.
The memories come flooding back... those carefree days when first they met...
tear-drops hang like diamonds on her lashes... she has no regrets.


Tantalising... fantasising...
smiling as she reads the rhymes
that tumble from the poet's pen, and march in neatly metered lines...
proclaiming what?... the hopes and dreams for love you found,
and later lost?
"I've been there too," she sadly thinks,
"but, was all really worth the cost?"
"Of course it was... I'm no spring chicken... but, I still know how to fly;
and that young man just down the road... I've seen him giving me the eye.
I think I'll call his bluff tonight...
I'll wear the blue dress; it's quite slimming;
those big brown eyes... those snaky hips...
Oh, please... let him like older women!"


Tantalising... fantasising...
peering closely at the screen;
characters a little blurry; eyesight... perhaps, not so keen
as it was, so long ago; she was Eighteen... before the War...
and young men really spoke these words that she reads now,
alas... no more.
She was a beauty... many suitors... many lovers, all long gone;
her memories... the sepia photos, neatly tied with pink ribbon.
Flying jackets, MG drop-heads; tea rooms that they used to know...
A smile; shut down the Laptop... and remember, in the firelight glow.


Tantalising... fantasising...
pencil blunted, paper covered
with more gently woven musings... where the thoughts
have briefly hovered
like two sated lovers quietly bathing in the afterglow;
another magic journey down the waterfall all poets know.
Hoping that the words spun out, will strike a chord... a heart-string, tug...
enfold you in a soft embrace... tender, smiling... warm and snug
in the knowledge that, out there, Romantics always will be found,
striving to, perhaps, shine warmth upon such sad thoughts that abound.

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.