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...