Sunday 30 September 2012


Could a man so high-born, noble,
Even see a girl like me;
So low-born and unnoble,
Or am I just as air to you
Invisible but there,
Something you can look right through
Without the slightest care?

You passed me on the stairs today,
I had no time to hide.
I saw you turn your face away.
Will my presence you never abide?
It seems a governess pure and simple,
Unconnected, dowry free
And plain of face without a dimple
Is all you see in me.

Too often now you're far away
And oblivious to my heart's woe.
Oh how I dread your return one day
With the lovely Miss Ingram in tow.
For I've heard that you're soon to be engaged,
It's the talk of the servant's hall.
And I'm haunted by visions of you both unclothed
After the wedding ball.

How I wish I could be those things
That I can never be.
I'd make you suffer the million stings
That you daily inflict on me.
I'd be a lady of great power,
Of wealth and beauty too;
And I'd dwell high up in my ivory tower,
Unattainable to you.

Perhaps only then would you understand
How it feels to be me:
That although I'm far from a lady grand,
My feelings are the same you see;
For I have as much heart and Soul as you -
Thoughts and feelings the same.
So I can't help longing to be with you
And to someday share your name...


Thursday 20 September 2012


A homeless snail appears
out of eventide's gloaming.
Delicately ribbed body
in variegated brown
glistens beneath golden arc
of garden lantern:
slithers soundlessly, hunger-driven,
towards greenhouse larder.

Eyes follow your trail in reverse.
An indirect route map of silver
that plays with imagination.
Is it a Faery Path?
If I shrink and walk it
will it lead me into another World -
your World,
where I can learn your ways,
perhaps even earn your friendship?

For although in forms so utterly diverse,
this journey through life we share:
two Spirits woven from a single thread
of Sacred Divinity.
And I so love you, little brother,
and will shield you as best I can
from all the heartless barbarity
inherent in my kind;

whose lethal poisons would leave you writhing
in indescribable agony - your punishment
for needing to eat; and for offending
aesthetic sense of  'civilised' race,
who've decided you have no right
to sully 'their' beautiful land.
And they have the audacity
to call you abhorrent?

Little one, in your innocence I see
a beauty unique, unrivalled.
You have no eyes to see me
so I gently stroke your back, just
to say 'I'm here, and I care.'
You cringe violently - could it be
from the warmth of my hand,
or is it that instinctive fear
of human cruelty, common
to so many species on Earth?

And who could blame you if it were?
Limbless and with no means of defence,
you're an easy target for the Spiritually blind
who would delight in squashing you underfoot,
oblivious to what they're destroying:
an irreplaceable work of art
lovingly crafted by the hand of God.


Sunday 16 September 2012


To see your drama clearly
is to be liberated from it.
Ken Keyes Jr.

My love, I think this item, us,
a peculiar anomaly
of incompatibility that

is never mawkish, lovey-dovey, all show;
but like true life is flawed.
Gritty realism uncontrived:

bears scars of word and deed
that cut to the quick, drew blood,
yet somehow failed to kill:

is trampled and marred with threadbare patches
like an old Persian carpet
that can only wait, longing to be perfected

with compassion and exclusive loving attention
that only faithful minds bestow.
But ours are so easily distracted...

I glimpsed a couple in the street today.
Strolling hand-in-hand, they gazed
deep into each others eyes;

then stopped to kiss - and in that moment
nothing else existed for them.
Just you and I in an unlit window.

Sunday 9 September 2012


It all began as a bit of fun:
his secret weekly treat.
But never a day passes now
without furtively sneaking out,
avoiding detection by suspicious wife
while she's busy cleaning the house.

Closing front door, quiet as a mouse.
Very carefully does it:
mustn't crunch on the gravel drive.
Safely obscured by conifer hedge.
Now for freedom a desperate bolt.

Neighbouring houses, trees, stream by
in a dizzy blur of elation.
Distance rapidly increasing between
himself and feared detention.

Tingling from scalp to the soles of feet
that barely connect with asphalt,
as breathless excitement propels him on.
Supermarket, chemist, newsagents; all
rise up then retreat in a flash, while he flies

over Mediterranean sea in his mind
to sandy palm-shaded beaches,
where gentle blue waves lap the shores
and exotic cocktails await him.

The doors swing open and pure adrenaline
shoots him straight inside
with the full force of a strongbow bolt.
His eagerness he can no longer hide.

Proffering his Soul to a Deity in exchange
for wealth redistribution,
he slams his coins down, loud as thunder
on the bookie's dark green counter.

'Two pounds on Russian Boy, please Burt,
in today's two-thirty race.'

And, without a doubt, he's doubly sure
that this time he's onto a winner...