Saturday 28 December 2013


I am no one.
It's cool being no one.
I can be invisible
any time I choose -
can blend into the background.
You'll never notice me
unless I want you to.
I am a transparent shade of grey:
a formless phantom
that shifts like mist
across early morning meadows.
I observe
without being observed.
Yes, it's cool being no one.

And what of you -
are you no one too,
or are you someone?
You are?
Then you have
my deepest sympathy.
It can't be easy
being out there
with nowhere to hide
from prying eyes
and paparazzi lies
that scandalise
your vulnerable side.
And do you not tire
of playing with fire
in media shire,
where consequences dire
await you in mire?
For your struggle for fame
to them is a game.
When it drives you insane
it's you they'll blame...

Oh yes,
They'll remember your name
within a narrow time frame...

but forever your shame.

Saturday 21 December 2013


Is he at all like you or me –
could a man so enlightened see
the World through ordinary everyday eyes,
or be taken in by society’s lies?

And does he go out on a Friday night
for a pint or two and perhaps a bite
to eat with friends in a coffee bar,
then finish up later in ‘The Northern Star’?

It’s hard to imagine, but I suppose he could,
although it would seem quite odd if he should.
In fact, we’d probably be shocked and stare
if we happened to find him there.

But then, I’ve seen him in the street
and read his each and every tweet.
Oh yes, he seems a regular guy:
cheerful, funny, and sometimes shy.

So what makes him different, I’d like to know?
Well, he certainly isn’t all bluff and show:
his genuine nature always shines through
whenever he stops to chat with you.

Now Albian Arthuan is upon us again:
this sacred time of the Sun God’s wane,
when time stands still and all Worlds intersect,
inspiring in us a need to reflect.

This is the time we see him transformed
and by his presence our hearts are warmed.
As mediator of Hearne’s divine power,
he delivers His message at the midnight hour…

“We, the Gods, will give you the land: but since our
hands have fashioned it, we will not leave it utterly.
We will be in the white mist that clings to the mountains;
We will be the quiet that broods on the lakes;
We will be the joy-shouts of the rivers;
We will be the secret wisdom of the forest.
Long after your children have forgotten us, they will
hear our music on sunny raths and see our great white horses
lift their heads from the mountain-tarns, and
shake the night-dew from their crested manes.
In the end, they will know that all the beauty in the World
comes back to us,
and their battles are only echoes of ours…”


And with the rebirth of the year
hope, too, is reborn.




Solstice Blessings to all fellow Pagans and Druids…

and in four days’ time…

A Happy Christmas to all my Christian friends!


                                                                       X X X

Thursday 12 December 2013


You've had girlfriends of all star signs
and with each one you've had good times
because you know what you must do
to keep them really keen on you.
Flattery glides effortlessly off your tongue,
you never leave any asset unsung.
Yes, you're an expert on girls: you find
at a glance you can assess each type of mind.
For some are sane and some quite mad.
Some are fun and others sad.
A Cancerian is easiest of all to please,
as she always wears her heart on her sleeve.
Not so the Scorpio girl, who retains
her mystery so quickly your repertoire drains.
The fiery tantrums of an Aries girl
will spin your emotions into a whirl,
while the sexy Libran will turn your head
with the promise of pleasures that lie ahead.
The girl who was born under Taurus the bull
has the figure to die for - if a little full,
not so the sporty Sagittarian lass
who is slender, tanned and full of sass.
And as for unpredictable Gemini?
With her you'll soon be flying high.
But most challenging of all is the Virgo miss
who'll demand the Earth before granting a kiss.
When out on the town you most like to be seen
with a stunning Leo drama queen,
while the shy Aquarian brings out in you
a protective instinct - to you that's new.
Now, the Capricorn girl's pessimism
quickly smothers your optimism.
And finally, romantic Pisces - well,
could she be your Soul Mate? Who can tell?

Oh yes, your specialist subject is girls.
You love the ones with masses of curls.
But straighter locks are sensual too -
just perfect for running fingers through.
You love the made-up, tarty girls;
as well as demure ones draped in pearls.
You like them big, you like them petite,
with other guys you fight to compete.
Oh how you've suffered for your art:
from bruised black eye to broken heart.
Yet still you adore them, one and all -
especially when at your feet they fall!

Friday 6 December 2013


Day of drizzle: day of dejection
with hopes
unfettered, I wait
for the page to load
this damp coldness
that penetrates to the bone
is immune to central heating
a robin hops
from bare branch to bare branch
in search of food
the Oak's yellow leaves
turning brown
are falling
lifeless, to Earth
rainwater escaping
from blocked gutter
mimicking my heartbeat
as I wait...
connection is elusive today
must be the weather
all those droplets
forming a barrier
to exultation
but today is the day
everything changes
I know I will find Utopia
when I search my e-mails
for your name...

Friday 29 November 2013


Drenched in silver we are
in this halo of street lamp,
this arena of human conflict:
observed by swirling moths
who mock
the folly of two egos that clash
then tumble in spilt blood.

We've made it our mutual goal to tear
from each others reticence
our own guilty sordidness
that no direct questioning
could uncover,
beneath blame and accusation
misplaced in love turned sour.

Spitting bile, where once
kisses so tender moved Earth and Stars,
scorched body and Soul in a rapture
now consumed by it's own fury
into nothingness.
Is the myth finally exploded?
Can love ever be exclusive?

Friday 22 November 2013


For Heikki

Wish I could access in each night's sleep
your thoughts.
I long to look, then remember next morning
what I have seen: to transgress privacy
in the vain hope that your dreams
embrace a slightest hint of me.

Your sleep is hope's final resort -
waking hours being a lost cause.
Perhaps if I concentrate hard enough
I can reach you in lucid dreaming
and awaken possibilities of the inconceivable.

Oh, if only there was some escape
from obsession's clutches: the liturgy
of these nightly devotions
that inadequate words now attempt to record
upon this blank page.

I am the condemned prisoner:
unrequited, out-of-control emotions
govern my days
and follow me nightly
into snatched moments
of exhaustion-induced sleep, where
I am haunted by tortuous dreams
that taunt with vivid flashes
of transpersonal awareness.
I see you wrapped in the arms of a lover
not me: an eroticism uninhibited
by primal self-preservation,
but instead honed by hero-worship
into a deadly blade of destruction.
Bleeding into the abyss,
whispering desperate orisons...
I fall.

Someone must have heard -
because you're here with me now
in green. Everything is Caterham green:
team colours, your race suit, car,
the circuit track stretching out
into my future.
And in those pale, pale eyes
I glimpse a hunger
that thrills me to the core.
NOT NOW...please
I...must...not...wake up...

But the dawn chorus
is dragging me

Saturday 16 November 2013

THE MYTH OF YGRAINE (according to Google)

Inspired by Brian Miller's brilliant poem, "The Life of Brian (according to Google & not Monty Python)"

Who is Ygraine?
She is a mystic.
A soothsayer and analyst
who lives mostly inside her mind,
grasping prophecies
from within it's depths
to see the larger picture
of Fate's intentions:
a destiny of mythic proportions.

solitary introspection
makes her seem aloof -
a trait some find irresistible.
Of noble de Bois descent,
she is wife to a Duke,
mistress of the King.
Do we really believe her
a mere pawn in Myrddin's plan?

bears Uther's son
in the draughty stone castle
on the Head of Tintagel,
where a legend is born
on this fateful day
that is here to stay
until time expires:
our Once And Future King.

So what of Ygraine
now she's played her part
in Clas Myrddin's story?
With Arthur crowned King,
her status has risen
to Queen de facto.
As for this Ygraine
who stands here before you:
well she is...unremarkable.

Many thanks for the prompt, Brian.
I had great fun with this one!

Saturday 9 November 2013


They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
we will remember them.
-Robert Laurence Binyon.

If tears are bleeding of the Soul,
then you must have bled to death
in silence,
a tragic life story
overlooked, then lost
in the relentless torrent
of passing years.
But in the void,
somewhere in your far-flung future,
a spectral hand grew flesh
and reached out of trauma
to transcend the perimeters
of accepted feasibility...

What can I possibly tell you
of the life after death:
of your eyes set in my face,
your words slipping from my tongue,
your compassion tingling through my finger tips;
or of your Spirit's trans gender contortion
into temporarily borrowed life?
For I am simply your medium:
umbilicus to the World
you cannot leave behind.
my consciousness withdraws
as I feel you coming through...

Physical recognition:
A momentary rush of pure ecstasy,
followed by a powerful sense of foreboding.
My Soul grows heavy
with untold horrors
and I'm falling through darkness
into the murky depths
of Armageddon.
There is pain, agony,
unimaginable apprehension.
My nostrils are filled with the sickening stench
of  decaying flesh.
I want to close my eyes
to the sight of severed limbs,
blood and entrails:
block my ears to the sounds
of these screams of agony.
But spiritual eyes cannot close,
nor ears be covered.
Insanity is a serious threat.

Identity has shifted:
no longer female, I am you.
Time, also, is dislocated.
This is the Somme.
It is 1916.
Words struggle to form
in my larynx...
now burst forth
in familiar masculine voice:

Weakened to the point of collapse,
I can take no more of this ghastly reality -
at least, not in a single channelling.
You understand,
begin to pull back...and yet
I want to throw my arms around you:
to hold on to you for all eternity
and absorb your suffering
into my own being.
But I cannot,
am not yet strong enough.
The enormity of such heart-rending torment
would surely destroy me.
Still, you and I are Soul Mates.
Bonded since the beginning of time,
it is our shared destiny
to overcome these monstrous challenges,
then eventually move on into the Light.
It is inevitable.
We both know that.

You are fading away now
into the ether.
Part of me longs to go with you,
but mortality holds me back.
I am grounding.

and emotionally drained,
I desperately need to sleep now...

For William Barnsley much more than a memory.


Saturday 2 November 2013


Nightfall at Windsor Great Park.
Faint echo of a hunting horn
announces the blurring of time...

Phantom-like he appears
out of brushwood and frosted ferns
and all wildlife in the slumbering forest
shake the sleep from their heads - then freeze
in deference to the Master's approach.

An owl hoots in response to his presence.
Then, unseen, it takes to the air,
as animals of every kind
come creeping through the undergrowth
to line His path back home.

This avenue of knowing eyes
observe His metamorphosis:
watch antlers sprout from skull of man
and from within Him Odin rise
to head the Wild Hunt.

Without a sound, they thunder through
the depths of ancient forest
seeking once more that Golden Age
when the Gods of yesterday held sway
and the One was as yet unconceived.

Friday 25 October 2013


Conquistador, now the Angel of Death
comes seeking your heart of stone,
is it cursed by the slightest hint of remorse
for the countless cultures misunderstood
that you've razed to molten ash?

Remember your past - that corner of Spain
that, for you, was never enough;
until raging avarice eclipsed humanity
to incite a full-scale insurrection
that exploded across the globe.

To build an empire you would stop at nothing,
so conned from the Aztecs their gold.
Their simple ways incensed you so
and architecture dedicated to unknown Gods
disturbed you, so had to go.

Terrified of your might, they fled and hid
behind barricaded windows and doors.
Such cowardice made you despise them more:
fired instinct to crush any weak resistance,
along with their pointless lives.

So you rode on a brutal rampage and torched
every straw-clad dwelling, then averted
your face from the heat of the raging furnace -
until a piteous sobbing reached your ears.
You looked back...and your stomach lurched.

There beside the embers a cowering young girl,
smoke blackened, gazed up at you.
You lifted her up and felt her tremble.
Her soft helpless body clung to yours,
silently for mercy begging.

Something alien touched you then:
compassion...and a need to be seen
as something other than what you were.
So you lifted her up onto your stallion
and from the carnage galloped away.

Soon the odour of burning flesh
was no more than the guilty recall
of a past in denial and the promise to come -
if she would only believe your lying tongue
when her saviour you claimed to be.

Well, you possessed her body but not so her Soul -
that part of her seemed to know better.
In fact, the thing you now desperately craved
had already perished in the hellish flames,
along with all those she had loved.

So what you held then was empty and cold.
In frustration, you struck her hard.
Was it that for once you had no control
over someone who aroused in you a love
that for the first time wasn't carnal alone?

Or perhaps it was the image of molten ash
in your conscience insidiously smouldering
that drove you to run her through with your sword...
then cry like a baby as her dying eyes
transfixed you in their basilisk stare.

Illustration courtesy of Google Images.

Saturday 19 October 2013


A blazing row:
wounds inflicted
with intent
to damage Soul
and make a dent
in ego's stronghold.

A deadly game
of table tennis.
Each strike
precisely aimed
at opponent's

Last word:
the prized trophy
fanatically sought,
amid threats
of self-destruction.
Emotional blackmail.

To be the victor
at any cost:
poison arrows
pierce the air,
miss the mark,
injure bystander -

by wishing to be
my lost child
instead of he.
Caught in the crossfire
just because I'm here.

Friday 11 October 2013


For Dave King...

I'll not weep for your passing.
I will not disrespect you
by enshrouding myself in black
and wallowing in self-pity.
I'll don my green robe
and celebrate your ascension
to Higher Self.

But even that seems
somehow inadequate,
for you lived that truth already
while still here on Earth.
You were a teacher
of the most enlightened kind,
devoting a lifetime to helping those
with complex needs.
Oh, such a noble Spirit...

And you were my supporter
when I was on the verge
of giving up;
my strength, when self-doubt
possessed me;
and my inspiration
when words refused to flow.
I cannot begin to express
how privileged I feel
to have known you.

this may seem heartless,
but I shall not miss you.
How can I
when I see your face
in my cappuccino froth;
hear your voice
in the falling rain;
find your poetry
in these wind-tossed leaves of autumn?
You are not gone:
have simply exchanged your form
for another, composed of pure Light,
much finer, yet no less real.
I am aware of your comforting presence
at this very moment as I write these words -
hear you offering constructive criticism,
just as you always have.

I so loved you, Dave,
as friend and fellow blogger.
I love you still
as Kindred Spirit.
I always will...

So why is my heart breaking?

Friday 4 October 2013


In the black of night
such fantastic dreams beckon
and lure him away
from his sleepless wife's side
to fly, faithless-winged,
the eccentric air
which she, suspicious spouse,
cannot share so remains
with unseeing flame-eyes straining;
gripping, white-knuckled, duvet cover:
twisting curses into polyester;
while imagination taunts
with images of an errant mate
roaming free among Moon-cast sirens.
So excluded, in fury, she can only wait
until deafening dawn chorus
prompts his unwilling return
and she can call open
those guilty eyes and suck out
every detail of all
that night-long stole him,
then with red demon claws
tear to shreds those temptresses
and superimpose her own face
onto voluptuous curves
before that awakening truant consciousness
has time to record the difference.

Friday 27 September 2013


In woodland at night
out of sight
take a bite

to alter sight
make perception bright
hit the height

of expanded awareness
total unstress
begin to undress

dancing naked
elation led
inhibitions dead

the Faery Queen
no longer unseen
joins you in green

then multitudes
of cool dudes
with attitudes

sixties relic

merging together
with purple heather
in stormy weather

becoming raindrops
pulling out stops
logic drops

through safety net
getting wet
beginning to fret

as spiders crawl
and lions maul
drowning you call

for antidote
or at least a boat
anything to float

away from here
where everything's queer
and turning to fear

beginning to run
reality's undone
was it only one

mushroom you ate
magical bait
that induced this state

perhaps by morning
comprehension dawning
you'll heed this warning

that ingesting shroom
your mind will groom
for utter doom

Friday 20 September 2013


Based on my favourite episode of 'Wycliffe', entitled Happy Families...

When you hugged me,
you climbed inside my head:
implanted thoughts, some

impossible to fathom, like
winds blowing in
from another world

where the nightmare never happened.
I didn't murder my twin!
And you alone believed me.

Still I am the suspect you reluctantly keep
chained to the unthinkable,
a more than willing prisoner

of your Scottish/Cornish lilt:
hanging on to every syllable
that tingles through my veins.

Stop - that's divulging too much!
I hold out my hands to be cuffed,
wishing you'd take so much more...

But Superintendent Wycliffe descends -
a dour bird of prey.
Is his the last face I'll see this side of inside?

Doug...please don't leave me,
not like this, not here
with him - when there's so much I need to confess.

Oh, if only Ruth hadn't wound me up so.
Now, even in death she has power over me still,
for your eyes have suddenly turned cold...


Saturday 14 September 2013


For Joanne...

Oh why can I not be like you -
have come-to-bed eyes of cornflower blue
and golden curls that frame my face,
with never a hair out of place?

And how come you're so sexy and slim
whilst I am simply scrawny and thin?
It seems unfair that you possess
such dazzling charisma, while I'm a mess.

You're confident, clever and charming too,
that's why everyone's attracted to you.
They find you perfect and unique,
from your many talents to the way you speak.

Oh how I wish I had your grace
of movement and that perfect face.
Instead, I'm clumsy and quite plain,
so being me is such a pain.

Success in everything you do
is always a foregone conclusion for you,
whereas mediocrity
is all that can be found in me.

Lacking in confidence and wit,
compared to you I'm just some twit
who's going nowhere really slow.
How I wish my words, like yours, would flow.

For your literary genius inspires me so -
such eloquence I'd love to show.
Instead, I'm tongue-tied and lost for words:
you are whipped cream to my whey and curds.

My friend I adore you, truly I do,
but I cannot help being jealous of you
as it seems to me you have it all.
So I've made my entire life your call

by trying so hard to emulate you
(I'd love to be your clone, it's true),
but it never works, because still I'm me -
and that is all I'll ever be!

Thursday 5 September 2013


I was bitten over a week ago, yes - I know,
and I'm shaking all over since the fight.
But at least I beat him that night,
good and proper - yes I did.
He certainly came a cropper!
Should've known better
than to challenge the district top dog.

Usually, at a time like this
I'd strut and swagger, impress the bitches.
But today, something's not right:
the ground feels funny - like
it's not really there, like
I'm trying to walk on air.
Yet...I can run faster than ever.
Just watch me go:
round and round in circles.
Can't seem to run straight anymore,
my feet have a will of their own.

But see how powerful I am!
They're all afraid of me -
even the humans.
Oh this is good.
I'm euphoric.
Or is this some kind of madness?
Suddenly I'm not at all sure.
Can't stop barking.
My voice is deafening, high pitched -
even to my own ears.
I'm so angry, feel impelled
to bite everyone, everything in sight.
This pressure in my head
snarls through my teeth,
and I'm so thirsty -
must find a puddle to drink from.

It's choking me!
I can't swallow.
The water swells up all white and frothy,
yet I'm dying of thirst.
I'm burning up,
can no longer even bark.
Humans are closing in around me now.
I keep hearing the word rabies.
For the first time in my life
I'm afraid - and desperate.
I lurch at one of them,
baring my teeth.

There's my master!
Oh such relief.
He'll take me home
and make everything alright.
I try hard to reach him,
but my legs refuse to obey.
They just buckle under me,
so I lie here in the road
and gaze imploringly into his eyes.
He takes a step towards me
as if to pick me up,
but instead raises his gun.
For a split second our eyes meet
and I see a tear glisten in the corner of his.
Then a bullet obliterates my brain.

Friday 30 August 2013


Deep in the heart of New York, deep
in that foreign land, your father -
like mine here - lived out his life.
On opposite sides of the Atlantic
those parallel, yet disparate lives
instilled into each of us unique aspirations
through childhood, adolescence and beyond,
that made us who we are today.

You found fame, are celebrated worldwide
for your trademark brand of gangland violence.
But I have glimpsed something else
embedded in that shocking façade -
an inner sensitivity: a contradiction
that mirrors my psyche's painful longing
for something you could never feel
for a mediocre English poet.

Still, you are as close to me as the heart
beating inside my thorax; as my complicated need
to see your eyes focus on mine; to hear my name
spoken in your distinctive accent.
           let deja vu kick in...

mine is the face that crops up
often in the background of your dreams:
barely noticed, soon forgotten,
yet persistent -
because energy follows thought...

and I am the stranger who shares your life,
distantly, in another time zone.
I think they call me "fan".

Friday 23 August 2013


Is there ever a time you care
that I am no longer there?
And have your nights ever been
haunted by my face unseen?

Or have you forgotten that distant time
when you promised you'd always be mine:
how as we strolled hand-in-hand
along Sandwood Bay upon golden sand,
you stopped to hug me close to you
and ask if I could love you too?
Oh how we loved upon that shore -
how all night long I begged for more...

So what went wrong between then and now?
For I cannot pinpoint exactly how
it fell apart and broke my heart,
and we were forced to live apart.

And I wonder if that lonely shore
will harbour the phantoms for evermore
of two young lovers from an earlier time
who dance there still to the surf's endless rhyme.

Thursday 15 August 2013


Inspired by The Book of Pheryllt.

Otherworldly Bard to Elphin am I:
shape shifter from the region of the Summer Stars.
Many have confused me with Myrddin,
but I was once his teacher.

I have lived countless lives
in a myriad of forms:
I have been king, queen, noble and prince;
beggar, slave and condemned man...

I have been a savage lion and a domestic cat.
I was once a Viking longship upon the ocean.
I have been a blade of grass growing in a meadow
and a snowflake falling upon Stonehenge.
I have been a moonbeam and a new-born lamb;
a spider in her web and a dew drop in the morning.
I have been an Oak Tree in a Forest,
a scorpion in the desert heat.
I have been a wave breaking on the shore
and a single grain of wheat eaten by Ceridwen...

Then for nine months I was little Gwion
growing inside her womb -
to be born as Guardian of Tradition.

I have passed through the Web of Ariadne,
have dwelt within Avalon's Hill.
I was fluent before being gifted with speech.
I have tutored all intelligences.
I alone built Nimrhod's Tower.

I am the tetragrammation.
My origins predate The Creation.
I shall exist when the Universe is no more.
It is not known whether my body
is of flesh or of Spirit,
for I am legion.

Simultaneous participation
in every aspect of Creation
has rendered me omniscient:

I have lived your past,
I share your present,
I am your future
because I am learned Druid...

I am Taliesin.

Thursday 8 August 2013


As the shadows lengthen across Blue Bell Hill
a ghost drifts - a shard of refracted light at the road's edge
that merges into a hedgerow.

Rising in the steam
from an under-road drain.
Trapped in eternal catastrophe.

You could mistake her for the strobe
of headlights through fencing posts,
if it weren't for the sudden chill...

There are no kind motorists tonight -
no-one to stop for the hitch hiker
and drive her safely home.
They all pass clean through her.

No traces of how she met her end
on this lonely stretch of road:
A fatal aberration of concentration.
A step into the road.
A beautiful blood-red sunset
that momentarily blinded a driver.
Blue metal that lifted her like a baby.
SHOCK WAVE..................................
A skull shattered.
Suspended time as rainbows struck asphalt
that heaved to her last breath.
Then her brain could no longer think -
the bone was too far in.
She died before her time,
a masterpiece unfinished.

The Blue Bell Hill ghost
still tries to reach home.
She knows her mother will be devastated
because there was no time for goodbyes',
nor to soften the blow
of shocking bereavement
with comforting words -
and because premature death is disrespectful
to the womb that nurtured her.

A sensitive psychic
slows his car to pick her up.
He drives her all the way home.

He pulls up at the gate.
She opens the door and steps out...
into the lengthening shadows
of Blue Bell Hill.

Friday 2 August 2013


He rests on pillows all askew,
beneath duvet tied in knots
and peers with bleary eyes at you,
as he tells you he loves you lots.

It's just his way of placating you
in case you've tripped over the mess
and through the air headlong flew
like the nine-fifteen express!

'Mind my I-Pad!' he mumbles in
that familiar half-asleep way.
You want to scold, but hold it in.
'Are you getting up today?'

But there's no reply as he's back to sleep.
So you pause to gaze around
at the shambles of a massive heap
of technology gone to ground.

His clothes are discarded in disarray
all over the beer stained floor
and so you tidy them all away,
then head for the bedroom door.

But your foot becomes entangled in
a spaghetti junction of cables
that make up an assault course within
the arc of his play station tables.

You stumble and land upon the bed,
waking him up with a start.
'Mum! Please be careful where you tread!'
he implores you from the heart.

But all you see are the coffee stains -
noodle and curry too,
splattered over duvet cover. How it pains
you, for this one you've just bought new.

He's exasperating, he's the bane of your life.
He drives you to distraction.
He brings you nought but anxiety and strife -
yet a certain satisfaction.

For in spite of his faults, he's all you have:
your friend, your inspiration.
He's the child you thought you'd never have -
your miracle of creation.

Thursday 25 July 2013


And many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake,
some to everlasting life, and some to shame
and everlasting contempt.
Daniel 12:2

The heart will be judged first,
So of all your deeds, which is the worst?

For murder or manslaughter, it's destination hell:
For rape or torture, it's there as well.

For misdemeanours minor, like thieving and lies,
It's rebirth in lower forms, such as flies.

But for the heart full of love it's a different story.
This one will surely ascend in glory.

Secondly, the mind will be on display,
For there'll be no brain to hide thoughts away.

So if you've been thinking of revenge and hate,
Then I'm sorry to say for you It's too late;

For I clearly hear Lucifer stoking his fire
As he waits for you - your situation's dire.

But if you've focused on loving and giving,
Then your Soul in paradise will soon be living.

Last to be assessed is your Spirit's progression -
It's best if your lives have been free of obsession.

If divine intuition has moved you along
Your designated path with a cheerful song,

Then I can honestly say I'm happy for you:
Incarnation's harsh lessons are finally through!

Friday 19 July 2013


That July
the strawberry pickers
touched Souls

as they laboured
side-by side,
wearing fingers to the bone.

They discovered, then,
a new dimension
within the berry.

The voluptuous redness
of swollen fruit
which filled the baskets
set fire to their hormones:

what just moments ago
seemed a humdrum
means of survival,

now brought the revelation
that even here,
in a humble strawberry field,
such passion could take root.

The fruits glistened in the afternoon sun.
It had taken such energy
to collect and pack so many.

United by a single thought,
urgently, in silence,
they stole a basket and slipped away
into the coolness of a hedgerow
that bordered the field...

At dawn, a half-empty basket
alone knew the secret of their frantic screwing
in the prickly undergrowth.

Concealing scratched skin beneath coveralls,
they took their places
on opposite sides of the field,
where they waited patiently
for the morning shift to begin.


Thursday 11 July 2013

LAND'S END at 11a.m.

Human feet have trampled this land
down to bare, uneven stone
the colour of ageing bone.
Rocks jut out into choppy sea:
a jagged brownness bathed in sun,
rising steeply from deepest blue.
Seagulls fight over crumbs
the tourists drop, their constant laughter
mocking the folly of mankind
who'll part with a small fortune
just to prove they've been here:
to stand beneath the sign
and have their likeness captured,
then buy mug, tea towel or postcard
to commemorate this day forever;
along with stories they'll tell back home
in native tongue, while fingering their treasures -
matching each with a memory
of Land's End that day, at 11a.m.

Friday 5 July 2013


You swear at your neighbour and threaten to maim him
because he fails to see your point of view.
You're filled with anger,
Let him stand up for himself - if he dare:
He'll be sorry if he does,
                                       because you'll kill him..
                                            they're alien.
Inside you, rage burns,
                                    spite devours.
Somebody else's face
                                  drawing your fist,
and your face,
                       like a death mask,
is menacingly calm above all this seething
with savage compulsion to destroy.
He mumbles something
You throw a punch.
                                The agony...
as unseen knife shoots clean through your hand.
You raise the other
                               in self defence,
                                                       and that's pierced too.
A six inch
                      out of thin air
                                            through the palm.
Now barbed wire tears: feel
the blood running down your cheeks
as you stumble through a thorn bush.
Is that broken glass
                               you just stepped on,
embedded there in the soft earth?
Sad, celestial music
                               playing in your head.
There is blood
                       oozing into your footprints.
And lilies:
the overpowering scent of lilies
                                                  permeating the very air around you.
you feel your heart breaking: yes - you,
oh, the excruciating agony
of everything
                 ever experienced
                                            since the dawn of humanity
becoming personal.
        who have never set foot
                                              inside a church,
desperately needing one...

In calm reverence
you kneel before his effigy
                                           on the Cross,
feeling the blood
from His sacred wounds.
And now,
you begin to understand.

Friday 28 June 2013


The old fisherman's cottage is crumbling,
like this, our moment in time.
It's very fabric, in turning to dust,
to me is symbolic of emotional rust.

'Hold on to your moment' - the words are crashing
through the fury of the waves
that mercilessly lash this rocky shore.
But our moment is lost with the tide.

Yet, oh what yearning to cling on - to
stop time in it's tracks and freeze
our smiles, forgetfulness of past or future,
and preserve forever this now.

In the darkness of windows behind me,
with eyes in the back of my head,
I swear I glimpsed the restless ghosts
of something we were meant to be.

I'm thinking of the disappointment of marriage,
of the lies we tell ourselves.
For I loved you once more than life itself -
until day-in, day-out intervened.

What good were such naïve passions then:
all that acting-out of impulse?
Where has it brought us, but to this day,
where we pose and pretend for the lens?

Yes, we're different people now:
what love is we're no longer sure.
Yet each one silently blames the other
for all those dreams unfulfilled.

So, who are we now - can we ever be sure,
although all these years we've endured?
It feels like we're buried six feet under -
and yet there's a faint pulse still.

Someday in the future when we're both long gone,
a descendant of ours will discover
this picture and in faded images will find
the story of two lovers.

They'll read of a passion that burned itself out:
of desires of the flesh that told lies.
But they'll also sense in the depths of our eyes
true love at a moment in time.

Sunday 23 June 2013


Bad moon's rising,
Baleful stars come out;
Roses in the garden
Wither on the stalk.

Screeching ravens encircle
The church tower tonight.
A sudden blast of icy wind
Across Arford common howls.

Within the woods a glowing
Ball of fire appears.
As it rises in the pitch black sky,
You're filled with abject fear.

So run, run, my pretty one
Down Beech Hill's ancient track,
Before Old Nick takes mortal form
To your living Soul devour.

For can't you hear the chanting
Of Satanists pledging you
In exchange for their infernal power
In a sacrificial rite?

As the last virgin in Headley Parish
You are the rarest prize.
So run, run, my pretty one...
And never look back.

There has been an oral tradition of the dark arts being practiced in Arford woods for many centuries.
Both my mother and I have personally witnessed this ball of fire phenomenon.
It was extremely unnerving!

Friday 14 June 2013


On Toyah's twenty-fourth birthday...

On a sultry June midnight
The crescent Moon shone down
Through open bedroom window
Where I stood in my dressing gown.

I was gazing into the garden,
When a soft wind stirred my hair.
It told me she still thought of me,
And for once this life seemed fair.

I hadn't needed that gentle breeze
To prompt thoughts of her in me,
But still it whispered in the leaves
Of ivy, 'Remember me?'

It rustled louder in the laurel,
Then down the alley-way screamed
In the voice of a young girl calling,
'Mummy, I'm here!' it seemed.

This is nonsense I told myself.
Although comforted, I couldn't abide
This wind's pretence of returning a child
To her grieving mother's side.

'Go and play with the flowers,' I cried,
'Or send ripples through the corn.
Just leave this human heart alone
To mourn a beloved first-born.'

But that wind refused to leave me.
My cheek it gently kissed,
And enveloped me in the delicate scent
Of a baby still desperately missed.

Just then such vivid memories arose -
So clearly her face I could see.
It touched me so, I began to cry.
Then Toyah spoke to me...

'Was I not a part of you
A generation ago?
So how could I not be a part, too,
Of the grief you've been suffering so?

When my tiny body was laid to rest
Beneath that cemetery stone,
I followed you home to be with you
So we'd never be alone!'

Friday 7 June 2013


God! How I detest you, Blanche Ingram
(whose dulcet tones ring out
in perfect harmony with his deft piano playing),
for your coquettish smile that draws
and holds his attention upon you alone.
Please excuse my curiosity, but have you not
enough suitors to amuse you already:
those lawyers, landed gentry and military men
who daily grovel, smitten, at your feet?
You are my undoing, Blanche Ingram.

Oh God!
I want so desperately to hate you,
yet I cannot, being a devout Christian,
summon that sentiment.
Hark how you sing -
and how he gazes adoringly into those eyes:
those beautiful eyes that have seen the World,
that have conquered three continents
and that now enchant my only love.
These emotions choke me day and night.
They stick in my throat and conjure
images in this poor, wretched mind
of a future blighted by dull, grey monotony:
a future without him, tinged green
with unbearable envy - another sin,
condemning me surely to hell's fire
at some point in my miserable future.

Oh, Blanche Ingram,
how could I ever hope to compare with you?
You - with your glossy, flaxen hair
and translucent complexion;
with that flawless form, draped
in delicate silks fresh from the Indies?
For I am plain and own
but two unbecoming cotton dresses, one grey, one black.
I am Jane Eyre, a governess:
am of that genus that you and your kind so abhor
and delight in mocking. I heard you just now
belittling me before your fellow guests,
who found your scathing words so amusing
that they laughed and laughed -
in spite of my extreme discomfort - at my expense.

You have crushed my self-worth, Blanche Ingram.
Yet you are a woman - like me.
In the eyes of God we are equals:
mere class does not hold sway in His Heaven.
There, I will be valued as much as you.
But, sadly, I am not in Heaven.
I am here, in the drawing room of Thornfield Hall,
where I sit sewing in the shadows
of a corner observing you and he
flirting and singing, whilst
I silently die inside of love unrequited.
I dare not speak my mind.
I blush with shame at my thoughts -
yet long with all my heart to act them out:
to rush up to that piano and sit between you,
then kiss his front of this entire assembly.
Oh, I am going insane.
I feel compelled to run out into the hall -
as if to hide these immoral thoughts
from God Himself.

Oh, Blanche Ingram, I know I should;
but how can I ever forgive you?
Your transgression against me is too great.
Not only have you robbed me
of my only hope of future happiness,
but your very presence has condemned me
to eternal damnation -
for, at this moment
I would willingly renounce my very Soul
to be in your shoes today...


Thursday 30 May 2013


A protest...

Kimi, I was appalled today
when I heard of your pathetic affray
with Sergio. It was so unfair
to black his eye without a care.
Who, I wonder, do you think you are
to have the right to go that far -
like an arrogant child who can only see
his own point of view. It baffles me
how it has never occurred to you
that he could have ambitions too,
and surely you realise everyone knew
you turned in on him 'cos he's faster than you.
If you hadn't broken the rules that day,
Sergio would have streamed away.
Oh wouldn't it pain you to have to admit
defeat by a younger man more fit:
A driver who'll someday reach the top,
as you watch your name down the ratings drop.
So, Kimi, all to you I can say,
is if you can't play fair, then stay away!

Saturday 25 May 2013


Wandering alone in the Forest of Sherwood
for hour upon hour in the depths of the wood.
Then a grassy knoll comes into view
beneath dappled shade of trees entwined.
I lay down and through half-closed eyes, I find
myths in these patches of blue.

I begin to doze and peculiar dreams
filled with outlaws of old and screams
awaken me with a sudden jolt,
to find clouds have come to obscure the Sun -
my adventure no longer seems such fun
and the trees sigh my name, so I bolt.

But all these paths appear the same,
so I haven't a clue which way I came
and the notion of spending a night alone
in this haunted forest fills me with dread -
I'd never be found should I end up dead.
Oh if only I'd brought my phone!

Now in the undergrowth something is rustling.
It's far too measured to be an animal bustling.
'Who's there?' I cry in wavering tone.
There's no reply but that ominous sound
appearing to come from all around.
How I wish I'd stayed at home!

It dawns on me that I could become prey
to this something that stalks these woods today.
Listen! I think there's more than one...
I stand quite still and around me gaze.
There's nothing to be seen in this vast green maze,
yet my senses urge me to run.

But before I have time to even think,
something I glimpse that's gone in a blink.
A flash of Lincoln Green, I swear,
just shot between ferns and the Major Oak
and just then, to others I'm certain it spoke.
To breathe now, I hardly dare.

So I throw myself down onto hands and knees
and dive beneath the ferns and leaves,
praying I'll be safe in here.
I lie quite still, then begin to choke.
For I find myself suddenly engulfed in smoke,
then hear voices raised in a cheer.

Gingerly emerging from my hidey-hole,
to see steam billowing from a wooden bowl
suspended over a blazing fire,
while all around a raucous gang
of grubby misfits sing and bang
on a drum in their odd attire.

I must have strayed through a chink in time,
and I'm strangely entranced by their haunting rhyme.
It's all becoming so surreal -
the sights, the sounds, the smells of roasting
rabbit flesh and flat bread toasting.
This lifestyle has strange appeal.

As I watch, unseen, a sudden shout
from high in a tree prompts mad dash about.
Then one man grabs arrows and bow.
He shouts a command that the others soon follow,
retrieving their weapons from a dead tree hollow.
And off in stealth they go.

As I watch them leave, the very air
seems to close behind them - I can only stare
at the curious ripple that restores my time.
There's no longer a sign they were ever here -
no cooking pot, fire, nor casket of beer...
just an echo of obsolete rhyme.


Friday 17 May 2013


River's song...

Moving closer
To where the digital dots join up,
Bringing fifth dimension to thought -
Touch to sight, oh yes, finally
Something tangible
Stepping out of fantasy
Into the living flesh:
This Alien
In the shape of man...

Oh God, he's dressing me in rainbows,
In his multi-dimensional box
That spans eternity.
I can have it all, he promises
With those timeless eyes,
And it's coming ever closer...

I'm sucked into the plasma.
Oh, that first kiss...the touch of his lips
Moving south, gradually conquering
Uncharted Downs, the heath in flames.
Defences razed in wild submission,
As his desire caresses
The womanhood to life...

His pounding second heart
Slips between my breasts -
The ultimate gift, oh yes,
And his spark takes life
Beyond my extra rib, yes, oh yes,
And we come together,
The Doctor and I,
At last
In time.

Sunday 12 May 2013


The bulldozers tore down Canal Street today,
These centuries old terraced homes.
The Luftwaffe couldn't have wreaked more havoc -
They're reduced to a pile of stones.

The government describe it as "Urban Renewal:
Improvements for Better Lives"
But tradition they've thoughtlessly stolen this day
From generations of Lancashire wives.

Amongst the rubble and rising dust
A frail old lady appears.
She seems to be searching for something important,
As she's so distressed and in tears.

I try to lead her away to safety,
But she kneels to reach beneath
The broken stairs and window frames
To retrieve a Christmas wreath.

It's plastic, faded and squashed almost flat,
But she holds it lovingly close
To her bosom as if it were a child.
Then she turns to me looking morose.

"My Harry bought this the year we were wed,
In nineteen-forty-three,
And it's hung in our closet ever since - this token
Of his undying love for me.

When I lost him in France the following year,
Through this I felt him near.
Then when they came to evict me, I left
My precious memento here.

Things must change I understand that,
But the sorrow is almost too much.
For they've moved me into a brand new flat
Where I've never felt Harry's touch."

Friday 3 May 2013


for Annabelle...

It feels good, doesn't it?
Go on...just one more double Vodka,
followed by a Benedictine chaser.
See how the faces blur
and voices seem far away.

Oh, and you can't possibly refuse
a couple of Rum and Cokes -
such a rich, vibrant colour.
How their magic lifts you:
you're incredibly high and invincible.

Now, how about a Gin and Tonic?
Or perhaps two? No, more than that.
Three? Four? More?
Before you know it
you're dancing on the ceiling.

The floor begins to lurch and roll,
but that only adds to the fun.
Being eighteen and euphoric is...WOW!
You can drink all you want in public now
an adult you've legally become.

You're really on a roll now:
flirting, teasing, flashing boobs and bum.
You feel like a celebrity -
never dreamt you could be this bold.
All attention's exclusively yours.

And those men who dare to dare you?
Bah! You'll show them!
True to form, this feminist
will drink them under the table -
every last one of them.

And you do, too...quickly losing count
of precisely how many pints, just
'Keep 'em coming!' you slur,
until club lights disappear
into darkness...then flashing blue light.

You find yourself in a hospital bed.
Your head is splitting, you're violently sick
and your eyeballs and skin have turned yellow.
Your kidneys are failing, your liver can't cope
and the doctors fear for your life.

That confident you from the nightclub last week
has totally disappeared.
You're quaking, sobbing
and pleading for help
like a lost and terrified child.

You beg, grovel and bargain with God,
'Spare my life and I promise I'll stop!'
But you know deep inside
it's just another lie.
You've been a drunk since the age of twelve.

At twenty-one you're laid to rest,
your parents and sisters are bereft.
Your mother blames herself, you know.
She believes her career she placed above you,
and this is how you coped.

The sad truth was no-ones fault -
just a weakness within you.
No freak accident took your life,
nor cancer cells out of control.
But, tragically, you had a choice,
and you took the terminal route.

Saturday 27 April 2013


What on earth is happening here?
I've always lived a life beyond fear,
Yet now I've become a gibbering wreck
Whose confidence just hit the deck.

I loved outrageously flirting with men
Until a month ago and then
I suddenly felt self-conscious and shy
So lost the courage to even try.

I'm up, I'm down, my head's in a spin.
Every night I just want to stay in
And watch a movie - unthinkable for me,
This party girl who loved to feel free.

My cycle that was so automatic
Has now become annoyingly erratic,
And these hot flushes without a doubt
Are dragging me down and wearing me out.

The makeup I've always loved to wear
Now drives me to the depths of despair.
It settles into those wrinkles I see
On the woman in the mirror who's older than me.

My skinny jeans no longer fit,
As middle age spread is appearing a bit;
And muscle tone has gone to the wall.
My pride has certainly taken a fall.

I lose my keys. I lock myself out.
I'm going insane without a doubt.
I'm forgetting faces and names of places,
I even got lost at the Sandown races.

I'm beginning to feel unattractive and old -
And very unsexy, if truth be told.
So I skulk in the corner trying to hide.
To be seen, I can no longer abide.

So what is to become of me -
Do you think from this hell I'll ever be free?
It's high time Nature invented a clause
Forbidding the onset of menopause!


Saturday 20 April 2013


At the end
he saw them rush at him, seemingly
from nowhere and assumed
they had come to greet him
in celebration of his latest victory.
But they had no mercy, these turncoats;
no respect for his greatness,
as they stripped and tortured him

What madness was this?
Had they forgotten who he was,
all he had done for them?
How he had risked his life
to seize power from a corrupt regime
in order to rebuild their country
brick by social brick
into a force to be reckoned with?
And he did it for them.
Surely they must see
that such independence has it's price:
that contrary views could not be tolerated,
that opposition must be eradicated
by whatever means necessary.
And fear was the only weapon
that was certain to control
a wealthy but unstable nation
like theirs...

But all they could see
were butchered kinsmen:
women, children - anyone
brave enough to challenge
the lies, treachery and broken promises
of a barbaric dictator, who
callously described such slaughter
as justifiable means.
And they'd finally had enough...

'What have I ever done to you?' he cried,
as he lay dying in the sweltering heat.
And a tearful young boy murmured,
'When they murdered my daddy,
you cheered...'

Friday 12 April 2013


Oh master of illusion,
Enchanter of women
With starry vision
Needfully driven;

You rule unrivalled
Seduction's arena,
Stealing from others
Sisters, wives, lovers,

By filling their minds
With amorous fables
That override reason
To induce faith's treason.

And you display not the slightest
Shred of remorse
For lives torn apart
Nor each broken heart

That your moonstruck magic
Leaves behind,
When pastures new
Beckon to you:

A pretty face and flaming hair.
Shapely legs - she's the one.
This time for sure
You'll want no more.

Then in the morning
Two lovers awaken
In the golden flow
Of afterglow.

But her perfect body
Deified by night,
Grows mediocre by day
So you hasten away

To find another
Altogether better,
Where you woo and win
Another heart to bin.

Yet still we fall, fall,
God knows why we fall.
But tragically we do
Fall victim to you.


Friday 5 April 2013


The stars are thick as pebbles
on the beach tonight.
Below, their reflections dance
through the black void
where night has swallowed the sea.
I could be anywhere -
there is nothing but stars:
a twinkling mass of neural pathways
inside the global brain of Mother Earth.
I am a thought inside her mind tonight,
a concept without form.

As pupils adjust to darkness, I see
something where the horizon should be:
bright pretty colours - some mobile.
Is she imagining a purpose for me?
Pathways are lighting up, as stars combine
with Isle of Wight illuminations.
Legend becoming real?
Have I lived before on the Dragon's Isle?
Am I apprenticed to Merlyn
in a parallel World?
I am embryonic in time.

Through the gentle lapping of ocean waves
Her kismet lullaby calls.
Is She singing me into madness divine:
giving birth to a higher me?
Am I born on those flaming torches
of passing pleasure craft
that slices through the fireflies
on a comet of orange-red?
For in it's wake, Picasso-ish, I see
transient fragments of our Lady's face
merging into mine.

My broken Soul is becoming whole
in the presence of Her healing love,
as stars reform to take their place
in the glyph of Her bequest.
These Heavens above are Her alphabet,
Her language the seascape below:
and Her hopes and dreams
manifesting through us
are shaping things to come.
So I'm picturing the World's heart
wrapped in arms
under Hayling stars tonight.

Photo: courtesy of Google Images

Saturday 30 March 2013


City lights. Late evening.
Anonymous streets dotted
With hidey-hole doorways -
Ideal pick-up places.

Kerb crawler slows. Warm car.
Slow drive to motel room.
No trace of wife here,
No scent of girlfriend.

Discarding layers, down to
Black lace stockings and stiletto heels.
You hear him gasp
At the sight of thighs

Tailor made for seduction.
Teasing comes first,
Before touch - you're expert
In what men need.

So you work your magic
With hands, lips, finally body -
Until his face
Contorts with rapture.

And you cry out, your
Timing perfect
For the role you're playing:
It's essential to make him believe

You feel it too -
That he's Don Juan
In your eyes, because
At home he's nothing special.

Gratified, he rewards you well.
You dress in silence,
Then re-apply your lipstick
And step into the night...

Friday 22 March 2013


Patterns -
Endless possibilities
Of escapism.

Carpets, curtains,
Wood grain - anything

A shift
In my reality.
Aah...amazing characters

With friendly faces
Smiling at me,

In varied
Art forms. They
Have been

My saviours
Since childhood:
My therapists...

White net curtain:
I see
In delicate leaves

A femme fatale -
Large eyes
And pouting lips.

'I could teach
You a thing
Or two,' she whispers

Through falling rain,
'About sensuality
And self-worth -

About how
Not to let
Men treat you!'

Walnut door:
A wise
Tawny Owl

Peers out -
A sagacious being
Who guides me safely

Through life's
Triumphs and pitfalls,

Feelings of inner doubt
Into certainty
And optimism.

Wilton rug:
Two Victorian boys
And a little girl

In poke bonnet.
Their open innocence
Is irresistible.

'Come and play!'
They call to me, hands
Reaching out

Of red and blue
Woven strands.
'Stop taking

Life so seriously!
It was never meant
To be that way.'

And I'm pulled
Into their
Symmetrical world,

Where they teach
Me to play
As I've never played before -

Until I clearly see
The patterns
Running through my life.

Whether this is imagination,
Or real no longer matters;

For all seriousness
Is lifted
From a burdened heart.

Options are infinite here,
In these spaces
Between the fibres.

Am I flower,
Leaf, vine,
Red berry?

Or am I none of these -
Just a poet
Teetering on the brink of insanity?


Friday 15 March 2013


Time, why are you so often cruel?
You deny opportunity,
Alternative past.
I could have lived a different life:
Could have lived it in his sight.

Time, I have reason to despise you.
You took him before I had enough of you
To reach into his era,
To grow up by his side.
Instead I've had to manage here

Without his warmth, his conversation:
Where his torture lies in my pre-existance,
Where pock-marked has grown
Beautiful again in French sunshine
And chlorophyll's reclamation.

In Gallic tongue, along the Somme
They speak of happy things now -
Are oblivious to the dark shadows
That lurk in your wake, where his agonies
Are just a nightmare away.

And I have often dreamt them too:
Have felt his heart pounding
Inside my ribcage - have glimpsed
Such horrors and heard their sounds
As insanity engulfed us both.

But when I open my eyes
I find myself alone beside him.
We co-exist, yet you keep him further from me
Than a distant galaxy:
As intangible as early morning mist.

And how you revel in your power.
You've divided our life paths:
Decided I was post-apocalypse bound.
So I grew up thinking like an empress -
That the terrors could never touch me

But I was wrong, wasn't I?
His will was stronger than you ever imagined,
And he overrode your arbitrary laws
To call to me from beyond the grave.
Your flimsy barriers crumbled then

And I awoke in purgatory,
Where my heart bled
With the sorrow of his hopelessness.
But for you, I might have re-written his story,
And perhaps spared us both

An eternity of hell and brimstone:
The vengeance of a heartless God -
The one he prayed to every night.
A deaf God, savage and malign;
Initiator of the holy wars.

And you stand there in the wings, Time,
As I see you in my mind's eye;
Laughing at the faithful who pray
To you in this one of your many disguises -
For you are the Almighty impostor.

Births, deaths and catastrophes -
All seem to be your call.
Who or what matters not to you,
Only when: Had I been born a year ago
I wouldn't be writing this now.

But you see, Time, I've cracked the code
Of your web of lies, your deceit.
This reality is just one of many,
And all it takes is a minor shift
In awareness to arrive at truth.

And he is my truth outside of you.
Ha! Did you really believe you could hold him
In that mouldering earth with tombstone above,
While I languished in an epoch
He would never reach?

Fool! The human Spirit is indomitable.
From his dust has risen a determination
Unchecked by mortality: an impulse that existed
Before your conception, when all things
Were one, and there was no separation.

Time, we're not the ones deceived.
It appears we've cheated you.
He is my yesterday...I am his tomorrow...
We are today.
And your empire has just imploded!