ON DECK

Midnight on the Norfolk Broads. Moored up.
Snuggled up in fleecy throws, sipping hot soup
from Land's End mugs, we sit in silence on deck
each lost in our own private thoughts.
My gaze wanders past you to the pub lights
beyond the tow path and their reflections in the water:

a constellation of dancing rainbow stars
glittering in the velvet blackness.
There isn't much else to look at,
apart from the occasional glimpse of headlights
rising up then descending as they
pass over Potter Heigham bridge.

Soup growing cold. But I try to hang on
to the moment, to stall time, to take in
the enormity of the task ahead of me.
Tiny raindrops begin to spot our faces,
but it barely registers.
We're both light years away,

absorbed in two wildly differing takes on us :
you, never doubting that we belong together;
and me, not having the heart to shatter your illusion.
Slipping off my engagement ring for the first time
while searching deep for the appropriate words
to let you down gently.

But, try as I might, I just can't find any.
So, feebly, I begin by blaming the stars,
"Capricorn and Aries?
We must have been joking, eh?
You, serious and home-loving. Me, outspoken,
restless and easily bored - what were we thinking?"

There is no satisfactory answer to such a question,
only more and more self-delusion.
And the torture in your eyes envelopes me like a sad blanket.
I want the deck to open up and swallow me.
But now I've begun there is no going back -
I must follow it through.

"When we first met, I believed I'd found my Heathcliff -
excitement and danger. Instead, I found myself
trapped in a world of tedious sameness.
There is this space in me that you can never fill
and it constantly aches for something inexpressible,
something only Emily would understand...

And I'm sorry,
so very sorry...



Wishing You All a Truly Magical Christmas and a Happy New Year!

And for those of us of other Faiths...Very Happy Holidays...:))

SUNSET RHAPSODY

How the mind plays tricks
and teases! Oh what a parody of foolish desires
set in daydream's whimsical realm
are here materialised in the red-gold hues
of a mid-December sunset.

And how such spectacle evokes and holds
intense amorous longing: for to sheathe in fire
the Adonis form intensifies mania -
however illogical. Ever since the first Eve
was formed from Adam's rib

has not woman been tormented
by irrepressible urges? The inner voice
cries, Touch him, go on - touch him!
And tingling fingertips
eagerly reach for the shimmering mirage.

But distance armour protects
the God-form from harlot's assault -
and we all know sunset eventually gives way
to dusk, that gathering darkness that shields
the Idol from wanton gaze.

And in the morning
he is no longer there, just an empty sky
and light unformed. The ice blue,
now victorious, seems to mock:
See - there is nothing here but space!

But, once aroused, the seventh sense
will not relent: scrutinizes still
in desperation clouds and flocks of birds
for any semblance of humanoid form
that imagination can illogically deify.



For certain the Gods have struck a pact
to place great power within the grasp
of man and etched his glorified image
deep into the female psyche -
is this what the intellects term "instinct"?

He, stunning once more in a new sunset,
is shimmering less though in the fiery glow: over-worshiped,
his perennial perfection is overstretching
and fading into another dusk. His body askew,
he is disintegrating and dispersing

into illusion's fractured sunbeams
that once gave him lips to kiss in dreams:
an exaggerated promise that seems suddenly absurd.
Now, as storm clouds gather, the ideal anatomy transforms
into irony's most hideous fiend.

MOSS

Over centuries, slowly
creeping. Discreetly,
very quietly,

our expanding forms
take hold on rocks,
creep over the gravestones.

No one questions
nor halts our progress,
other organisms make room.

Soft tendrils adhere
to hard surfaces,
imperceptibly melding

with even the mighty Oaks.
Our power is in our resilience,
our footprint is indelible.

Although non-malicious,
we breech all defences,
invade the crooks and crannies.

We feed on moisture,
on sunlight, air;
asking

very little,
only to exist, to be.
We are legion.

We are unintentionally,
subtly, pernicious:
we can be poisonous -

but only in self-defence.
In spite of our meekness, though,
we are formidable.

We are
relentlessly engulfing the Earth
in green and yellow.

No one has seen it coming
so, soon,
our conquest will be complete...

CONTUSION

For my mother...with deepest compassion

"I know dementia," she says. "It is all I know.
It is your worst nightmare.
But I do not fear it. I live there.

Is it my instability that frightens you -
my unpredictability?
Or fear of contamination, that my condition is contagious?

Love is an illusion,
how it runs from the hard times!
See how it disappears like a puff of smoke

just when you need it most? Loneliness
is turning me to stone. I lash out in frustration.
I'm hurting. I want you to know how it feels.

They're slowly poisoning me, you know -
these demons who visit me.
See this pale, gaunt face in the mirror?

I have suffered the atrocities of alien abduction:
have been probed and experimented upon
by beings with huge eyes and needles for fingers.

Now I am disintegrating into odd-shaped pieces
that will never fit together again.
I am losing myself. I can't stop screaming.

The sky is darkening: it is coming for me,
the darkness. It will drag me off
to God knows where. But I will not go!

It's not real. It's not real.
It's all in my head - that's what they're saying,
these strangers in white coats who accost and hold me down.

I am deafened by shrieks.
Nightly they pierce my eardrums:
has the Banshee finally come to claim me?

I am terrified of this dark red thing
that lives inside me, just awaiting the right moment
to close down my brain. And what may come after.

Birds fly across the sky.
Are these the bearers of Souls to the next World?
Is it for their deliverance that my arms rise skyward?

Sudden sword-thrust through my head.
What is this blurring of senses, this petrifying
of body and will - some horrifying contusion?

The red thing is devouring me.
A sea of faces, weeping.
The final separation.
A clinical voice saying  Apoplexy."

Oblivion.


Now we, the living, are left
with our legacies of guilt...

THE AUGURY

Triple portrait of Charles I,  by Sir Anthony Van Dyck


Unearthly creature! Are you for real
or some fairy-tale Being wholly surreal?
Just look at those sad and brooding eyes
that augur misfortune borne of self-lies,
and I swear that could I but hear your voice
you'd lament the error of future choice.

Still and tranquil at first glance,
and then such turmoil in your stance.
Oh see that leaden gathering cloud
draped about you like burial shroud.
So desperately your mind is reaching out
to escape a destiny forged by self-doubt.

How is that one of such mollycoddled descent -
a Dandy of glittering palaces - be sent
to govern a nation in chaotic upheaval,
one so ill-equipped to deal with evil?
Ha, did you really believe that fable
the "Divine Right of Kings" would keep things stable?

How dare they disobey your will
and so many of your troops kill
that fateful day upon Edge Hill
that the whole of England remembers still?
You could have had it made that day,
but through indecision threw victory away.

Just how many more had to die before
you realised no solution would come through war?
They demanded democracy, you turned them down flat -
you were the King, and that was that.
A King's word had always been law of the land,
until Cromwell and his ever growing band

of followers who became the "New Model Army"
pre-empted your moves and drove you barmy.
Well, along with frustration came childlike tantrum:
no longer would be tolerated this rebellious scum!
Stuttering and cursing these "Enemies of God"
you attempted to over them ride rough-shod.

But, unfortunately for you, it badly misfired:
many of your allies had defected, it transpired,
and now the country had it's King on trial!
Such a thing was unheard of, you were in deep denial.
When they read out the sentence...tyrant, traitor,
and public enemy...you faced the prosecutor

and made one final attempt to speak.
But they cut you short - your fate now looked bleak.
Just three short days you were granted to prepare
to meet your maker - oh the utter despair.
Then outside Whitehall on that January day
by executioner's axe you were spirited away...



Perhaps there's good reason that the great Van Dyck
painted in triplicate this portrait so like
your tragic countenance that haunts me today:
to the Holy Trinity I'm inclined to pray
and plead for deliverance for this fractured Soul,
that three parts be forged once more into whole.

EREBUS

You could just as easily knit sea-spray
into a fluffy white sweater
or capture the wind in a butterfly net
as banish exquisite recollections
from an overly nostalgic mind
that appears hell-bent
on creating it's own personal Erebus.

You need no electronic picture file
to resurrect once more the angles of his face
in life-like colour, or to preserve in time
desire's frenzied flare for intimate touch.
Emotions eject their darts, dipped in thought's poison:
no matter how you sweat to cling to hope,
disillusion still creeps in.

Now in the early hours his voice
envelopes you. Listen to his ballad of bliss:
a lover's cruel lie, preserved forever
in the archives of bitter experience
for future perusal. You struggle
to conquer gut's wrenching in the eternal now:

that final promise fossilised...haunting...taunting...crushing.

Oh how the two of you once loved!

And how the remembrance of it blows you apart,

as if to recreate from your atoms a new Universe

composed of endless frenzied yearning

to catch and tether those fleeting impressions

that nightly come in racing heartbeats' blazing wake

and within seamless vivid dreams.

But this dawn banishes the ghostly images,

and although searing lust so covets immortality,

last night's fever gradually subsides into apathy.

However fiercely you're in denial,

obsession recoils from the clarity of the rising sun

that highlights reality in stark relief, and blinds

the deluded eyes of the emotionally naive.

ARMISTICE DAY

On Armistice Day
cheering crowds thronged the streets
and how the bands played!
But those joyous songs the people sang
served only to heighten your sense of sadness,
for they signified for you imminent redundancy.
The last of your boys were finally moving on.

There were no long drawn-out goodbyes,
just a few half-hearted pledges to keep in touch.
You'd been there for them when they'd needed you,
it was as simple as that.
Please remind me again -
how many broken minds did you mend?

Armistice Day
symbolised the end of an era for you.
Armistice Day
secretly filled you with dread.
But, guilt-ridden,
you'd smiled and celebrated with the rest
whilst trying hard to feign euphoria.

Meanwhile, all you could do
was await orders from above,
knowing it was inevitable
that you'd soon be exiled
from your beloved Craiglockheart.
It was unthinkable - you'd invested
heart and soul in that place
that had become so much more than home to you.
How apprehensive and weary you felt -
and your nervous stammer was worsening daily.

But the British Army had no compassion
for a severely damaged psychiatrist
who had become shell shocked by his patients.
You'd served your purpose
and now you were an embarrassment to them.
So they hastily signed your discharge papers
then sent you on your way.
And it seemed to you that not a living soul cared...



But oh how wrong you were!
What of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen?
Neither of those great war poets ever forgot you -
your name crops up frequently in their memoirs
with unmistakable affection and gratitude...

And now there is me -
an unknown insignificant, I know,
but you will be none-the-less in my thoughts
on this Remembrance Sunday in twenty-sixteen.
Oh Dr. Rivers,
I have read your books and digested your papers,
and have learnt so much from you.
You were a genius of your time.
And I will remember you
always...

William Halse Rivers Rivers

INITIATION

By the fourth night of sleeping alone
at St. Nectan's Glen I'd finally cracked.
The visions had started and I couldn't handle it -
even though it was what I came here for,
was a crucial part of my training.
The fasting, the constant meditations -
all were taking their toll. I felt weak,
light-headed and shaky.

What a fool!
Naivety had fostered the expectation
of some gentle, easy transformation,
not this gruelling hardship
that seriously challenged my understanding
of life, time and being.
The biting wind and dampness of the forest
did little to help either.  I felt myself
physically and mentally fragmenting...

Bells tolling in the dead of night.
Struggling to my feet, half asleep.
Scrambling through bracken, ankle deep in mud.
Following the sound.
Up steep stone steps,
feeling my way in the darkness,
through dense blacked-out woodland.
Then, just as the ringing ceased,
I found the Hermit's Cell:
ruinous, sombre.
Much like my spirits.

Then the rain came.
Thick, penetrating drizzle
so typical of this part of the country.
Shivering, soaked to the skin and thoroughly miserable,
I'd finally had enough. Reaching
into an inside pocket for my phone,
intending to call my mentor and plead for a reprieve.
Nothing...no signal.
Despair.
Sense of total isolation and helplessness.

The rain ceased and a full moon appeared between the trees.
I stood motionless, watching the strange shadows
that seemed to flit around those crumbling walls
that were reputed to have once been home
to the tutor of Merlyn Himself.
The very stones appeared to be alive
and the unmistakable scent of incense
filled the damp air.
It was then that I noticed the figure.

Clad in hooded grey robe, it's face obscured
in shadow, I was sure
it was looking directly at me.
I froze, acutely aware of my extreme vulnerability.
But gentle words uttered in a language not my own
began to flow through me like Prana, allaying all fears.
And I understood them!
I haven't the slightest idea how.
I just did.

A kind of spiral enclosed me then
in soothing golden light - yet, simultaneously,
I seemed to be outside of it all,
observing the seasons, the planets, the suns
cycling through the aeons - and
I felt a part of this stunning spectacle,
so knew I had no end myself
and that only this body would eventually perish,
not this I who thinks, feels, and now
was just beginning to grasp the unfathomable.

And that knowledge filled my entire being
with an ecstasy like nothing I'd ever known before.
It was moving way beyond personality,
beyond thought or emotion -
even fear could no longer touch me.
So this is what it meant to be Druid -
to be part of the Old Gods' Grand Plan:
a messenger, an open channel...
with the Universe in her eyes.

GREEN EYES

Remember how we'd spend hours together
musing on the subject of life after death?
Well, now you know much more than I.

My face, that everyone used to say
so mirrored yours,
became bathed in tears, glittering
like diamonds hardened by pain
as I tried so hard not to feel.
Skeletal hands of grief were crushing and crushing
my insides to a mush. They wrung out emotions,
while my voice still called out your name - a
disembodied, alien voice that refused to believe
it had survived you.

Day-by-day my brother moved on,
speaking of you less and less, as if
in denial that you'd ever existed.
And it stung me to the core.

Each night I just lay awake in the darkness:
a Wounded King of Arthurian myth,
my shoulders knotted to a spinal column
that had grown painfully rigid.
In sleep, when it briefly came out of total exhaustion,
I dreamed I was buried alive - cramped
into the grim coffin beside your lifeless form.
I even fancied our Spirits were bound together
with barbed wire that tore my Soul to shreds.
Still I clung to you, begging you
to take me home with you
into your Spiritual World.

Then, I was comforted by the scratchings.
Throughout the year following your passing
they grew increasingly loud and frequent.
Oh how I wanted to believe
you'd returned to haunt me -
rather than accept the simple truth
that a squirrel had gained access to the attic
from somewhere beneath the eaves
and was raising a family up there.
That squirrel, to a tortured mind,
had become your disembodied Spirit.
I heard your voice in those sounds:
in their speaking for you and their mourning for me,
they seemed to weave me into the fabric of your Being.
And I lay there in your death,
already mentally beneath the frozen earth.

And such unwillingness to let you go
did eventually bring you back to me.
When the despair finally overwhelmed me
and I contemplated ending it all,
you came and held me in your arms
and told me I must go on,
that it wasn't my time yet,
and explained that a seed you'd planted long ago
still had much maturing to do
and had yet to fulfil it's purpose.

Oh the peace those words brought,
and how cleanly they cut through such galling despair!
In that precious moment I finally understood...
you were still closer to me than hands and feet.
Then later that night when I glanced in the mirror
I saw the whole picture - my true Spiritual Heritage -
for the first time.
It was there in stark clarity:
there, in the green of my Father's eyes.

LYTES CARY MANOR

Here, it was love at first sight: the homecoming
avidly sought throughout a lifetime. Ancient
emotionally charged walls and parapets drew me in,
and now I cannot imagine ever wanting to leave
a place so enigmatic and enchanting.
To most, it appears only atmospheric - harboring the subtle echoes
of long-forgotten triumphs and tragedies.
Our footfalls and voices intrude, but the house remains aloof:
a non-interactive observer, rooted in bygone times.

Exquisite oaken beams are edged with quatrefoils, demi-angels and pierced tracery,
lovingly crafted by expert hands using skills now practically extinct.
But this ornamentation is only a small part of Lytes' timeless allure -
past generations of occupants remain here still.
They impress themselves upon our consciousness,
infusing our minds with a powerful sense of belonging.
These days, as I walk among them, they totally inhabit me.
Then each time I leave, I am hollowed out.

These ethereal beings mingle with the visitors,
their footsteps following well-trodden familiar paths.
The two leather ladies, one either side of the fireplace,
keep watch as the centuries roll by.
Their expressions appear somewhat haughty, possibly disapproving.
It is as if they know, can see into our Souls
and interpret our life-paths and aspirations.
But these have no interest in our trivial wants -
for they are from an age before self became all-absorbing.

A spectral Lady Catherine Neville stands
examining her own portrait that adorns the Oriel chimney piece.
Casual observers walk clean through her. One remarks:
"There is a peculiar chill here. It sends shivers down my spine.
I don't like this place at all. It reminds me of a ghastly sepulchre!"
Such blasphemy shocks me.
My Lytes Cary could never be an abode of the dead.
The truth is in the company I keep - and what I shall someday also be:
an indelible shadow on the stone spiral staircase...

DIRGE FOR A KING

Irresistible urge to plant a kiss
upon those sensuous pallid lips,
while listening to the priest reminisce
about a life in constant eclipse.

Oh why did he die at the very beginning
of the penultimate episode?
I wanted him there to the end and winning
the battle with his cousin - that toad!

From silver spoon that ushered him in
to the Reaper's final swathe,
he's been here buried under my skin -
in his essence I constantly bathe.

So what comes next for Ryan Gage
now Louis is dead and gone?
Wish I had courage to slip backstage
and interrogate his hangers-on.

And what on earth will become of me
now The Musketeers is finished?
Guess I'll be reduced to the epitome
of dreamer with all hope diminished. ;)


I am taking some time off now, as I have just begun a new college course. 
The workload is huge, so I fear I won't be writing much over the next few months.:/
However, I will post and visit you as often as I can.

Wishing you all a great summer (well, the rest of it!).:))
I will miss you all...xoxoxo

PINK

Recollections of all our yesterdays
infuse these cave walls

with fiery emotions that intensify
at each rising of the tide
until the very rock cries out:

I will not remember you!

Oh to fall asleep
in blissful ignorance
of all that has gone before
and in Medusa's gaze
turn to stone: cold, unfeeling

as these chilling winds
that drive the sea into my Soul,

where still you dwell unbidden
in this pink spray: pink,
the colour of my accursed undying love.

BLACK

Black is what I most remember
about Khan: blackness and all the wild
goose chases he loved to lead me on. I've never walked
the bleak vastness of the moor since then. Black,
not of moonless skies, but a greyish,
almost mongrel black that belied his illustrious
pedigree and made him appear unexceptional
to the untrained eye that might skim over him without the slightest interest
in the mud-encrusted dreadlocks that swamped
his delicate features, nor in the flashes of deep auburn
that framed those soft brown eyes.

I remember him, the most stubborn, mischievous Afghan Hound that ever lived -
the only dog I ever truly called friend - almost as tall as me,
his long legs outrunning mine,
in fact running rings around me at every turn:
bolting off into the distance, impervious to my frantic calls
and genuine fear that I'd never see him again.
Oh how he delighted in trying my patience! Slipping his collar
was a favourite trick, and throwing himself into the river -
just, I swear, to compound the state of his coat and bring double trouble down upon me.
Truly, he could run like the wind when he wanted,
could easily have outrun any prize-winning racehorse.

So many times I'd cling onto his lead with dogged determination,
only for him to pull me along, face down in the mud,
a wicked glint in his eye. Then he'd slip his collar
and take to the hills like a thing demented, hill sheep
darting off in terror at the sight of that
demonic-like black lightening that streaked through their midst.
He left me feeling so useless: a dog owner, owning
what? Those feet, I believed, weren't even under his control.
They appeared to possess a will of their own, and certainly were my Nemesis.

Then, finally, one of these escapades proved to be his undoing.
A car is much less yielding than an ineffectual mistress.
My heart was shattered by the sickening BANG
that sent him spinning into stillness
in an horrific kaleidoscope
of sodden reddish black.

CONTACT

Orbs emerging from the shadows
in a deserted barn.

How should my senses interpret
their presence? Trick of the light, perhaps?

Diving, spiralling -
surely they own

this very air. I cannot touch
such enigmas: these beings

from another plane who have forsaken
their half-sleep to fly, fly around.

Are they Spirits unclothed?
Bright globes of pure energy, or essences maybe?

Look! One is revealing itself -
facial features, with a goatee beard.

Maybe this is a voyager - even Sir Francis Drake himself,
defying metaphysical law

to return to his beloved home
and negate all known hypotheses:

a sphere of pure consciousness, his white light
fuelled by unfinished business.

Are these non-amnesiac fugitives from the Afterlife?
And why do I behold

this dancing solar system of Souls
who swirl like wind-tossed snow flakes,

hypnotically transfixing me to the spot
here in Buckland Abbey grounds?

The past, momentarily touching the present?
Now they are gone.

ENGLISH SUMMER

This is the lived-for time, activities time.
All windows are thrown open.
I have my sum cream -
three tubes of it -
and a new bikini on standby

waiting in the dark of my wardrobe
to finally be worn
and fade in the sunlight, while my skin
turns red then golden brown.
But, oh, dream on! The wait is so protracted.

This is the season that can never be relied upon.
It is the season that mostly disappoints,
with clouds heaped up like mountains.
Sunlight,
heavily, heavily filtered through raindrops

casts a graded grey sheen over the landscape.
Drab asininity. Depressing.
Stuck indoors.
It is the rain that governs all,
but neither purposely nor unintentionally:

only arbitrarily.
This is a period of blind faith, of craving and praying for sun -
a sun so elusive I hardly remember it's beauty,
it's warmth,
it's effect on the earth:

all that blossoming and burgeoning, that is still on hold.
Only hope keeps me going,
and golden memories of rare heatwaves.
It is these I thrive on, rather than present reality.
But the rain batters everything, there is no escape.

Now there is a virtual lake where the lawn should be,
muddy
with dissolving worm casts.
The garden's tears are brown.
They spread onto the patio, leaving nowhere to walk

except in wellies
and are systematically drowning all the insects.
The sun is alpha male,
all-powerful, laughing at us from his high throne:
uncontested sovereign of the unseasonal

who delights in thwarting our year-long holiday plans.
Summer is for the foolish -
the foolish who believe in the sun god,
who worship him in the rain,
their bodies numb with cold and brains too dumb to reason.

Can we survive yet another English summer? Will the roses
blossom before rotting on their stems,
or live long enough to see the sun?
If so, what will they smell of - mildew?
Sudden chink in endless cloud. Gorgeous sunset.

Pass my camera. QUICK!!!

ENCOUNTER

Sudden encounter
         equilibrium shattered:
a passing glance
         reciprocated.
Enslavement
         to libido's dictates.
Deep denial:
         repression
of overwhelming urge.

But the image repeats
         speeding heartbeat.
Impulsively seeking you...
         on wind-swept deserted beach,
your nakedness
         steals my breath.
Motionless as the rocks,
         staring at each other
then tentatively touching.

This is forever
         the blatant lie
is in my eyes,
         is the siren parading
as Soul Mate,
         highly romanticized
in quicksilver promises
         beneath moonlit sky.
Shangri-la.

All night long
         your wild caresses
drown me
         in passion's tumultuous waves.
Pure rapture.
        it is enough to be
part ocean, part you
         in the intensity
of the moment.

A cry escapes
         as if from afar
and nails claw
         the muscles of your back,
branding you in blood.
         You open your mouth
as if to speak
         but I smother you
with guilty kisses -


not wanting to hear
         the heart-felt I love you
that you utter anyway -
         because those words
are beyond
         my comprehension,
their syllables chaotic
         as droplets of sea spray
dispersed by the western wind.

         

OLD LADIES

They're hoary and wrinkled as aged tortoises,
delicate and faded as antique lace
that if handled would fall to pieces.
Old ladies sit huddled together in pairs
on benches in the centre of Millennium Park
and pull their shawls closer with unsteady hands
around bony shoulders in vain attempts
to ward off the cool summer breeze.

Knitting needles clack competitively as
memories are embellished and shared with pride:
places they've been, things they've seen, who they've been -
edges of fact and fantasy blurred
by forgetfulness and wishful thinking.
Aah those children, grand and great-grand children -
such paragons of loving family support
(whom they see only once in a decade, with luck).
Well it's not out of choice, it's because they're so busy!

A girl passes by, heavily tattooed,
in mini skirt and stilettos, with myriad piercings.
"Disgraceful!" they mutter with disdain in unison,
with much tutting and vigorous shaking of heads.
Have they really forgotten the years of their youth
and the dashing Airmen of World War II
whom they vied with each other to try to impress:
all painted nails, scarlet lips and gravy browned legs,
while older women labelled them tarts !

At teatime old habits call them home,
and by sunset they've finally made it there.
From cots barred in like hamster cages,
in pink hairnets these old ladies sip cocoa and laugh
at comedians on oversized TVs 'til eleven,
then it's lights-out - a strict rule of the home.
But ageing is merely a state of mind:
sleep isn't for those rebellious few
who sneak out the back for a much craved fag
and a snog with the Colonel, now sixty years retired.

WILL O' THE WISP

A golden band wearing thin,
restless discontent within.
The gloomy city and monotonous years
had led to bickering and crocodile tears.

Longing to escape to Never land,
for I knew he'd never understand
when time runs out on unfulfilled plans
a gloomy fog your future spans.

I asked him, "What is happening to us?"
He replied, "It's only a blip, no fuss!
Go spend some time with old friends
and I'll see you again when summer ends.

You know most couples need time apart
to bring them closer, heart-to-heart."
But love, it appeared, had it's own agenda:
best laid plans et cetera, et cetera...

Then just by co-incidence you were there
taking in the bracing sea air
in a quaint little cottage on cobbled hill.
That Bohemian lifestyle - such a thrill!



Clovelly is now a distant memory:
one forbidden night of rapturous fantasy
in late June, so long ago -
and the searing spark that set us aglow.

It could have turned our lives to steel,
but we were careful not to feel
too much and only rainbows touch.
Yet still that night I relive too much...

A LIFE

For my daughter Toyah, 14.06.89 - 28.06.89.
In memoriam, with all my love...


This hurt has lingered so long,
re-intensifying with each new day.
The rising of the sun a stark reminder
of what should have been...


The team forms a semi-circle around the bed.
The Paediatrician's smile is jarring, inappropriate
as he tells me she has a mere fifty/fifty chance
of survival.
Am I alone with such agony?
I cannot read
their faces of stone.

The door - I want to run,
to escape harrowing reality,
to throw myself under a train.
The pain is debilitating:
twelve long hours,
all labour long...
then she's carved by a surgeon's scalpel.
Then deep coma...


Two long weeks pass
while I search her face
for signs of life.
But there is nothing:
no movement, no sound
to cling to,
only a ghastly silence.

My precious first-born,
limp like a rag doll.
Beloved dust
slipping through my fingers,
turning to rust.

No time for bonding,
for tender caresses
nor words of love.
In fact, no time for anything.
Just a tiny white coffin
slipping into eternity...


Here in the darkness,
endlessly yearning for the light.
But it never comes - only
another morning and birdsong:
that bittersweet serenade
to a broken heart
and the end of motherhood.

LUCIDITY

This dream's steeped in mystical nostalgia,
it's visions clear as day-sight. I have returned
to childhood country home, driven
I suspect, by the monotony of stagnant inertia.

Naked, I stand, without embarrassment
outside the hand crafted garden gate
painted forest green by Father's hand,
and each post adorned by a carved ornament.

Nothing has changed: laburnum arch, all summer
a profusion of blossoms the colour of sun,
giving way to flower beds, vegetable gardens, then woodland.
Such an idyllic scene flares irresistible to this dreamer.

At the very tips of lofty fir trees, buzzards circling.
Below, King George's playing field, where we four
used to play our legendary games in uncut grass:
childhood's magical heyday, imaginations free-running.

With sun sinking low, my Mother's voice
calling me home for bed.
And I hide again - just as I did then, in the undergrowth
forcing her to come seek me. Proving, I guess, that I have a choice.

Oh the bliss of re-living that distant innocence:
I, no longer naked, but draped in daisy chains and buttercups,
dancing among the trees and ivy - a latter-day Wood Nymph
spiralling, spiralling, all the way around our boundary fence.

Brown as a berry from all summer outdoors,
I squat behind the giant gnarled Oak under cover of ferns.
But my Mother's hawk-eyes still miss not a thing:
with reddening buttocks, in floods of tears, I'm roughly man-handled indoors.



I am taking a couple of weeks off to go touring, so will catch up with you again soon.
Until then...Happy Blogging! *smiles* xoxoxo

DEAD FISH

For Freddie...with deepest compassion


Dying fish floating
                          on the water.
See the cracks forming
                          there in the ground.
Weren't they there a year ago?


Sacrifices for the lives
                          we're living.
Nirvana for the special one
                           who dares
feel it all and change his ways?


The blame collectively becoming our Karma,
                           descendants' lives in the palm of our hands.
Don't we care about the planet we live on,
                           or don't we understand?


See the dead fish floating
                           on the water.
See the cracks spreading
                           deep underground.
Didn't you see them years ago?


Now the lights are going out over London,
                           New York, Paris and then Hong Kong...
soon the whole world will be gone.

THE TOUR GUIDE

Today in medieval manor,
                          do you remember me I wonder?

Do my eyes call
                          from portraits on the wall?

Then when they swap the pictures round
                          does my gaze go to ground,

or do you see me anyway
                          in the memory of that April day?



And does my voice fill your head
                          with every single word I said

echoing around the panelling
                          old carved oak now channeling

these restless thoughts and forbidden dreams
                          that inspire in you impossible schemes?

Oh through those sunlit stained glass windows,
                          feel my impassioned caress in rainbows!



You're leading yet another tour -
                          all new faces, never a bore.

But can so much as a single one
                          ignite your slumbering inner sun?

Oh please let it be the flitting image
                          of my face that incites such rage -

like mine - of ravenous core-heat
                          and maddest wildest heartbeat.



Home alone now my thoughts roam free,
                          nothing but the TV for company.

Somerset countryside on the screen,
                          a part of the county I've never been.

Amid those rolling hills of green
                          flash of retro-vision seen:

this, I recall, is your home shire -
                          and it sets imagination on fire.



When gazing from your highest window
                          to Glastonbury Tor where the west winds blow,

does it bring to mind green eyes
                          and stirrings you're afraid to recognise?

Then attempting to drown forbidden needs,
                          do you turn to your collection of foreign meads

and gulp them down in haste -
                          but my perfume's in the after-taste?



Oh am I just a deluded fool
                          to hope you also felt it all?

When our eyes met
                          over that faded Gazette

and you stealthily breached Pandora's Box
                          with the dusky reclining nude on top

just for me...
                          God, how you set my fantasies free!



Even today it still tortures me,
                          this knowing what can never be.



                          

SCORPIONS' TAILS

Your repressed indignation had barred her
from eternal slumber. She could not believe
the wounds she'd inflicted had pierced that deeply.
Where did you get such thoughts
if not from scorpions' tails?
For others, unconditional forgiveness.
For her, unending resentment.
The tables turned:
helpless to close immaterial ears,
voiceless in self-defence,
she had to experience it all
driven into the centre of her being -
had to feel the blade,
not through her non-existent heart, but there on the walls
through her paintings, in dark thought-forms
piercing her talent with poison arrows
in their ornate frames of gold leaf -
why did her work take pride of place
whilst yours, unframed, lay gathering dust
in a neglected corner of the attic?

Did your cry of deliverance
resound in her open grave? Each arrow
nailing her to the earth taking on
the form of a beautiful healing Angel.
In stark contrast: the ugliness of her harsh criticism
that rendered you just as ugly,
like a cancer cell eating away
at your spiritual body, gradually depleting
Higher Self.
Mother-in-Law's disparaging tongue
no longer to be borne. Your hidden relief
became an exorcism, ridding you
with something approaching euphoria
of years of humiliation.

Healed, the lighter you rose above
the monumental
contorted form
of your injury: Mum-in-Law's tongue
pinned down by your arrows...
but it was your blood that oozed
from the corners of her mouth.

PREMONITION

A fisherman's widow scans the horizon
from Port Quin's shore in eighteen-fifteen,
and tonight I stand here beside her fretting,
battered by gales and forty foot waves.

The centuries between us dissolve before dawn
as The Voyager head-butts the ocean floor.
Oh the news when it comes is a foregone conclusion -
I knew when I saw her I'd see him no more...

THE WANNABE

A boy was playing the bass guitar,
the fame had gone to his head.
While watching backstage all his girlfriend could think
was how in two weeks time they'd be wed.

Well the beat was frantic as they belted out
hits from their latest album.
Hysterically the fans screamed and cried -
oh the atmosphere was totally awesome!

I stood at the back surveying the scene
and perceived the storm clouds gathering,
for picking up their thoughts verbatim
I could predict where all this was leading.

I was sort of part of it, I kind of wasn't,
still it was agonising to watch
how after the concert with an unknown girl
he shared a bottle of Scotch.

Well one thing led to another until
the pair of them wound up in bed
and they seemed to be having a lot of fun -
until a bottle smashed down on his head.

As blood flowed profusely from a near-fatal wound,
his girlfriend just stood there in shock.
"What have I done?" I heard her cry
as they carted her off to the dock.

Then the wannabe quickly snatched the mike
and sang like dynamite.
Well, audiences being fickle, a star was born...
while an ex-girlfriend cried all night.



PS
Just wanted to share my birthday pics with you:




The gorgeous birthday card from Austin
                                                     

I am taking a short break after today, so will "see" you all again in a week or so.
Until then, have a fabulous week...I will miss you...
Hugs :)) 

STANDING THERE

Not a hint of nerves -
but you were being extra vigilant
for loose rocks as you positioned yourself
right on the uppermost edge of Cheddar Gorge.
Watching you focus your camera,
all I felt was acute anxiety and nausea.
Across the other side, the rampart cliff.
Far below, ant-like cars winding
their way along a miniature strip of tarmac.
"Suicide point" some have called this spot.

I could see why.
An optical illusion gave the distinct impression
that we were only twelve inches or so up.
"Step over," a voice
seemed to suggest in my head,
"You won't hurt yourself!"
And I was put in mind
of Mother Earth's vagina - the entrance
to the sanctity of her womb.
A powerful sense of belonging, of being part of something
sacred and infinite, overcame me.
Suddenly, I understood what it meant to be female -
the purpose of my existence.

Lost in the beauty
of Her most intimate moment - penetration
by the Sun God in brilliant golden light.
And we exchanged glances, no need
for words. We were awestruck, caught up
in the inexpressible joy of sharing
in Her afterglow.
You captured it all.
But, alas, no camera can accurately record such bliss:
all that was visible on playback
was a gorgeous multi-coloured shaft of light,
descending deep into the core of Her being.

Breathless, we perched ourselves on a rock
and gulped ice cold water from the flask
I'd filled that morning in the trailer.
It tasted better than vintage champagne.
We were intoxicated
with the sheer rock faces crammed in our heads,
the waterfalls, the gorse bushes, the caves,
the purchases from gift shops
jammed into our rucksacks.
We were blinded by the brilliance
of the Sun's reflections on the river,
and the midges that darted into our eyes
out of the trees and crevices and empty beer cans
discarded by yesterday's tourists.

Oh how we'd sweated as we climbed Jacob's Ladder!
Then we wanted our reward from the top of the tower:
aah, that view! Such a delightful visual translation
of the Creator's Plan - this canyon
and the Mendip Hills beyond
that gradually faded into the graded blue
of a summer horizon.

Standing there
on top of the world,
we could be Gods too,
of a kind.

Standing there,
Nature's voice
murmuring on the breeze:
the first revelation,
cutting through our vertigo
into awe-struck minds.
And every hair on my body
stood on end.

Standing there,
all previous memories erased.
The time, the place, the crowds below -
just being there, on that cliff edge,
such intimacy with Mother Earth:
you, me and Her...suspended
in that single moment in time, transported
to another realm.
No longer a before or after.
All things familiar gone.
Just standing there.



So glad I scribbled those notes in my journal.
They are the only proof that we were ever actually there
and it wasn't just a dream.
It was all so surreal.
Nothing else tangible is left,
only those words and pictures.

But at odd moments I re-live it all
as if I am there again - like a hand
snatching me from eternal sleep.
Living through all these ordinary years,
our years.
Then I come alive and feel again
that breeze in my hair.
And I reach for your hand...

standing there.

TEXT

Text me by all means, but please
don't make it the usual hard done by message:
the you've abandoned me and left me broken
self-pitying soliloquy. I've heard it so many times
that it no longer provokes either guilt or pity.

Can we also avoid the blackmail message:
the if you don't come back I swear I'll kill myself.
You know how much I need you in times of trouble
to sort out my life for me kind of message
that displays not the slightest interest in my needs?

And can we ditch the it wasn't MY fault message:
how can I help it if all those women throw themselves at me?
Well, you didn't have to catch them ALL did you?
One, or maybe two, I could have forgiven. But forty-two??
I now feel inclined to say, "Oh just get out of my life!"

What I've really been longing for is a how it used to be text:
the I can't wait to see you again, and
you'll always be the only one for me,
you know that kind of text, that precludes
something altogether more erotic and exciting

that sets my pulses racing and breathes new life
into a heart that's been slowly tortured to death.
However, I've come to realise that will never be. So
I'll settle for a hi, how are you? friendship
kind of text, that is caring, genuine...and just for once,
totally unselfish.

St. CUTHBERT'S

That midnight meditation was an impulsive endeavour
to engage with something infinitely out of reach.
I had expected impossibility, yet so avidly craved
that feasibility hinted at by Einstein's Theory
of Relativity. Also that night
Mars was in conjunction with Venus,
while opposing Saturn - a prospective time anomaly
according to my comprehension of both theories - the
proverbial red rag to an off-beat visionary like myself!
That conjunction filled me with excitement.
It was mainly the position of Venus
that fired my imagination.
For an amateur astrologer, it was
a true eureka moment - when absolutely anything was possible:
even Romeo and Juliet could have resurrected
to live happily ever after, well into old age.
Oh yes, that night the Astrological and Metaphysical systems
were in perfect harmony, forming a bridge
across the division of time and space.

Time tunnel:

Too much noise. Student voices reach deafening pitch
in a corridor of St. Cuthbert's College, Worksop.
Not now, but then:
1908, your final day there.
Dizziness. As if on a tilting deck of the Poseidon.
A silent Chaplin movie, blurred, jerky and out of sync.
Feeling sick. Now equalising. Still light though -
lighter than air, but feeling present. Then full, glorious clarity.

Suddenly -
                  fate must have decreed it -
                                                             suddenly you.

First glimpse close up, burned into the back
of my retinas - permanently etched into memory banks.
Less tall
than I'd imagined, but well-toned, athletic.
And those long, slender fingers
that would someday perform such miracles.
And your face, so hauntingly beautiful.
I see you there, clearer, more real
than in any of the subsequent years -
as if we both existed solely for that instant,
and time itself stood still:
the soft waves of your hair, that I so ached
to run my fingers through. That sensitive,
expressive mouth, and those soulful eyes,
deep-set and twinkling like stars
in an indigo sky - so vibrant and alive.
Yet I could sense a melancholy already in their depths. Perhaps
a premonition of tragedy in khaki
that only I had knowledge of then?
You completely knocked me out
with a vitality and optimism
that totally belied the horrors to come...


I remember very little
of the remainder of that night. Nothing
except an acute sense of separation
on returning to outer consciousness,
then my mesmerized observation
of your image that had followed me home.
And the discovery of the raised red welts
where you'd touched me
that branded my arm for the next week or so,
and my Soul, beneath them, forever.




I am taking a short break now, so will catch up with you all again in a week or so.

Until then...
have a fabulous weekend - and Happy Blogging!

xoxoxo

THE CORFE CASTLE GHOST

The Corfe Castle ghost is a subtle ghost,
is a victim of King John;
is a ghost of the silent hours
when the tourists have all gone.

The Corfe Castle ghost was a French Knight,
is a ghost of centuries past;
is an echo of  royal ruthlessness
whose shadow is still cast.

The Corfe Castle ghost is a ghost of trauma,
is a soul in darkness trapped
in the dungeon beneath this ruined tower
where in anguish he's still wrapped.

Upon gazing through an arrow slit
I could see the spiral stair
down which he made his final journey -
ouch...it gave me such a scare!

Then just for an instant he became I -
oh grim hopeless and despair
of knowing I'd never once more see the sun
nor breathe again God's clean air.

No, instead I survived on stagnant urine
and the depths of degradation plumbed
along with twenty-one fellow countrymen,
until one-by-one we succumbed

to starvation's savage desperation
that turned us cannibalistic...
but at the end I believed I was back in France,
enjoying fine wine and a picnic.

IT'S SO UNFAIR

It's so unfair how obsessively you adore her
while taking me for granted.
How hard I've tried to be your ideal:
Juliet to your Romeo, so passionately
I should have won an Oscar...
whilst she can pick you up or drop you
however and whenever the fancy takes her -
yet she's the only one you dote on.

It's so unfair that I have learnt to parachute jump
and mountain climb - in spite of a horror of heights -
solely to impress you. But you've failed to notice...
when all she has to do is lie on the beach
and cultivate a tan to earn your admiration.
And I've practised so hard to become
a nineteen-fifties Bardot - your ultimate fantasy -
and tried to act as sexily. But did you respond?
No way! I might as well have been invisible...
yet she can pass by unmade-up
and tatty as a tramp, and your eyes are out on stalks.

It's so unfair how I'm always extremely careful
never to sulk nor rant and rave
when you cancel a date I've spent hours preparing for,
but just smile and say, "That's OK. Maybe another time."
Yet she can throw her tantrums
and you'll jump to her tune every time.
What she wants is all that matters.

It's so unfair how I can read your thoughts
almost before you think them, and
adapt my words to harmonise with your moods...
whilst she is arrogantly dictatorial.
So how come you hang onto her every word?

Oh it really is so unfair that it's so unfair,
and even if I could stop loving you
it would still be unfair
that I am me and not her
and never could be
that perfect.

It tragically is so unfair. So, so,
so incredibly, frustratingly, painfully,
cruelly unfair.

THE SQUATTER

The squatter you never knew you had
in your spare room
is watching with indifferent eyes

from the shadows at three in the morning.
He hasn't the capacity
to feel for your suffering:

that glittering
of falling teardrops

that he will never experience,
being so ruthless a predator
without a shred of humanity.

The killer instinct is all-absorbing -
you are instantly forgotten
as Kamikaze fly

dives into sticky triangle
of house spider web...

RECANTATION

My wild child days I've given up:
those days of desperately seeking
mad alcoholic parties
is no longer my mindset's domain.
Black lace basques and micro minis
lie discarded in the stale darkness
of a locked and bolted chest.
They must not tell tales of who I was -
the metamorphosis
is all that matters now.

Aah... those seductively hedonistic yesterdays,
with their constant reckless cravings
that stunted the Soul's evolution.
No artificial elation nor lust fulfilment could ever hope
to satisfy ego's increasing demands
that filled an otherwise aimless life...
until you came
and taught me how to love.
Now I am someone else.
Pure, like a baby.

ENTITY

I have no heart, yet still I heartless go
in search of love. Non-physical,
should I then languish in limbo
for eternity, devoid of hope or aspiration?

In your dreams, feel invisible fingers
caressing the inner recesses of your mind.
Register my face. Love me, then forget me -
and us - when you awaken.

But a presence lingers at the edge of consciousness,
loving you in secret.
See me in the trees, the grass
and in a stranger's face:

an invisible overshadowing
that inexplicably disturbs your senses
and toys with your keypad, playing it like a piano.
The entity in the machine

composing messages with double meanings
that only you can decipher.
Then as your heartbeat quickens,
my image fills the screen...

ADAM & EVE

What does it mean to be a woman?
One might as well ask
what it's like to be
a chair, a flower or a horse.

Are not our breasts the same as man's
only bigger? The sole difference being
a random configuration of chromosomes
that also endows us with an extra rib.

And what is a uterus
but a biological instrument of the Gods:
a vessel for the manifestation
of  Divine concept into living matter?

So what part does man play
in this near-exclusive arena of womanhood?
In fact, does he have a role at all
in an age of commonplace lesbianism and cloning,

where feminism has become a God ( or should I say, Goddess? )
that grows daily into an accurate semblance
of the original Apple Tree - and bears fruit.
Except my fruit is rotting on the boughs.

It is only in his eyes that I have seen
the perfect apple, the answer to my dreadful famine.
So I reach out and savour each mouthful...
for I am a daughter of Eve.

YORK ROAD, NOVEMBER 1975

11pm. Guildford, England.

The in-crowd gather in York Road
like exotic moths beneath a street lamp,
in flared denims slashed at the knees
and ridiculously high platform shoes...then they
wander off in a fog of cigarette smoke
until they come to Clive's place.
Each carries a passport of dope
or toxic booze.
Discordant guitar music
and crazy drum beats
throb through every brick
of three storeys, attic and basement.
Red light bulbs cast
an eerie glow onto the stairs,
where two entwined bodies
grunt and squeal,
one hand gripping the banister,
white-knuckled.
Someone yells from the depths,
"Anyone got a syringe?"
as they continue searching
for Clive.
They finally unearth him in his bedroom.
Highly animated, he is entertaining
a group of art students
from the purple stage
of his king sized circular bed.
He is expounding the rudiments
of medieval architecture
in his Stockholm accent,
his extremely long blonde dreadlocks
half-obscuring finely chiseled features.
His yellow, black and white
harlequin print jacket
dazzles in the light of
a myriad of altar candles.
He abruptly stops mid-sentence, yawns,
strips naked and climbs into bed
between red satin sheets,
pulling his chosen concubine
for the night in with him.
"Would you be an angel," he whispers
to an obviously disappointed girl
in harem style trousers
and heavily beaded corset top,
"and go fix all these up with a drink?
And please close the door on your way out -
that lousy band
is fucking with my head!"

SUBSTITUTE

It is beautiful here today at Tintagel:
the sun is shining, there is a gentle breeze;
the tide is out, the beach is sandy
and children's excited laughter fills the air.
I have come here with someone who makes me smile.
He is interesting, funny, and is never condescending
when he pays me compliments. He holds my hand
and gazes so tenderly into my eyes,
while gently guiding me through the rocky dampness of Merlin's Cave,
as far as the deserted beach beyond.
He is a gentle man and a sensitive one - exactly the kind
I've always believed I needed, one who readily understands
my every unspoken need and fulfils my every whim.
It is late afternoon and we've shared a perfect day - except
I've hated every moment...
because he isn't you.

MEAN STREETS

This part of Glasgow is characterised by it's abandoned and shuttered shopfronts
into whose doorways we duck to avoid the gangs of youths. In the square
a lone busker, mentally on another planet, strums on his guitar out of tune;
and on a vandalised bench sits Tommy, who a decade ago
was in our class at school: the boy with learning difficulties, upon whom
the teachers soon gave up. Now, he sells poppies each November on a street corner.

Later, at the local pub's closing time,
there is the usual fracas - a loud explosion of violence
that spews out onto a back street where a young couple are snogging against a wall,
their faces hidden beneath hoodies. We quickly move on, in case they recognise us.
Midnight finds us sitting at a table in the seedy nightclub,
where doll-like women are dancing in cages

and the men are moving from table to table on the make.
One leans forward to stroke my face, his breath reeking of whisky.
I feel my space being invaded. Nevertheless, I can't suppress a mocking giggle -
he is so drunk it's funny. Clearly angered, he grabs me by the hair
and hisses through clenched teeth, "You'll pay for that, BITCH!" - a threat I know you'll avenge.
But for now we swiftly leave. Experience has taught us how to survive

these mean streets where we were born and most likely will never leave.
We re-cross the square, dodging the broken bottles, takeaway wrappers and fresh vomit.
It is deserted now - apart from a junkie out cold on the bench, syringe still in his arm.
A lone pedestrian Police Officer gives us a wide berth,
his eyes betraying sheer inner terror. We part ways.
You go to buy a gun from an acquaintance. I go home to bed.


Don't worry, guys...a purely fictional piece! ;)

AN UPDATE

Hi everyone,

First of all, I'd like to thank you all for your continuing support throughout this difficult period in my life. I'm not sure I would have survived it without you. You have all be my rocks...truly.

As you know, Austin was admitted to the Royal Brompton Hospital in London on 4th November, for an aortic valve replacement, via open heart surgery.
Well, the operation was a success, but then a short while later he suffered a massive bleed and had to be opened up again to rectify that.
Unfortunately, he contracted a lung infection a day later and his condition deteriorated rapidly. He suffered a collapsed lung, followed by pneumonia, and was in a coma in intensive care.
The doctors informed me that they were unable to find a cure for the infection as they had no idea which strain of bacteria was responsible, and the broad spectrum antibiotic he was being given was proving ineffective. They said I should prepare myself for the worst outcome.

Throughout those hours and days, my son and I could only sit by his bedside, talk to him and wait, while the doctors drained huge amounts of fluid and blood from his lungs and chest cavity...and the microbiologists tried hard to grow a culture that would provide a cure for this particular infection.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, they eventually managed to pinpoint the cause. It was an extremely rare strain of bacteria, and they had no idea where it had originated from.
But at least there was finally a cure.

What should have been a seven to ten day stay in hospital had stretched into a month's stay, so after the first three weeks my son and I had to return home and leave Austin there (the cost of the accommodation had just about bankrupted us, and Ayrton had to return to work!).
Leaving him there alone was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But I did arrange for the hospital chaplain to visit him in my stead, so at least he wouldn't be the only patient without any visitors throughout the following week...so if you ever read this, Mari...thank you so, so much, I am totally indebted to you.:)

Austin is back home with us now and is recovering, albeit very slowly. He has lost a huge amount of weight, and most of his muscle tissue. He has been left extremely weak, with virtually no sense of taste or smell and his appetite is very poor...but hey, he is still with us. And that was the very best present we could ever have hoped for!
He has to attend the rehabilitation centre twice weekly for the next year.
Yes, it is going to be a long haul. But at least now we are filled with hope for a future together.:)

I do intend to return to blogging now, but it may not be as frequently as it was before as there is still a lot to do here.
I really hope you will be patient with me. I have missed you all so much and will visit as often as I possibly can.

Thank you again for all your support and kind wishes.
I genuinely appreciate them all...I couldn't have survived this without my dear Blogger friends...:)


Happy New Year! xoxoxo


ps/  Just wanted to share with you the other good news...I became a grandma on 1st January! Baby Jonie is so beautiful...and I am so, so proud! :)))