Wednesday 25 August 2021


No path leads to the copse
where the Dryad sleeps.
It has all grown in.
He stands as if carved in stone
in the dappled and shifting shade
beneath His canopy of oak,

attired in ivy's profusion.
Through the dense greenery
odours of moist earth rise.
A snail leaves silver track
over aged roots that penetrate the earth.
I take a forbidden glance:

amid bark gnarled by time
and asymmetrical boughs,
He sleeps on, His form barely discernable
within sacred wood and green leaf.
The small brown nostrils inhale
as He sighs in His slumber,

aware of my presence.
I am the hope he dreams of.
His anguish has drawn me here
to defend His kind with my life.
I chain myself to the living trunk
and defy the screeching saw...

Thursday 19 August 2021


The courage of the pain-wracked, in spite of the onslaught!
The smile forced for others. A convincing mask.
There is agony behind it, and the dread it will never end,
and the frustration of helplessness, the hopelessness of it.
The anxiety cuts deep, silently crying out for help -

loaded, as it is, with hidden self-pity.
Self-pity? Imbecile! Who cares how much you hurt?!
A red hot sword journeying through the nerves:
Hell's Imp, playing in brain with nervous system, 
prodding with pronged fork, a skilled torturer

inflicting agony upon the cursed Soul
with a glee that knows no bounds, 
supremely skilled in his favourite sport.
The Imp is resolute, there is no anaesthetic.
He has been ignored too long, now his presence is felt.

So the suffering radiates, like a fearful nuclear fallout,
and there is only the primitive tongue to express
such depth of pain. But it hasn't the words,
it is inadequate. Should it be cut out?
And the futile sobbing. So ineffective.

Sustenance, too, is rendered impossible - is stored 
in memory's archive with fellow outdated files,
while watching others tuck in. Starvation beckons.
It has become an obsession, food.
A substance more precious than diamonds.

But how about the eyes of the afflicted, the eyes?
Constantly dulled by the hidden curse
and often moist with tears. And the mirror -
that face in there is the face of a dead woman,
so drawn and pale with hollow cheeks,

a ghostly Seer, whose prophecies
bring such apprehension. A merciless judge
passing sentence upon the innocent:
a life sentence of neverending pain.
Courageous? No. I am scared.

My humblest apologies, dear friends, for taking so long to visit you all. I am currently awaiting a brain scan. In the meantime, I will visit you all as often as I possibly can. Thank you so, so much for all of your kind supportšŸ˜Š
Been missing you all so much xxx