The Girl That Was Me

Turning the pages of the book

At images gazing out, I see

The memory of a certain look

Yes, there she is! The girl that was me

Young and slender, brown haired, smiling

Quietly laughing and Oh yes! Beguiling
The years in turning, changed me, made me

Wife and mother, friend and lover,

Divorced, depressed at fates behest

But! Sometimes in the mirror turning,

A smile, a look, unconscious yearning

Quite suddenly, I see

The memory of that other life

And the girl that once was me.

Learning to Die

Resignation walks the streets,

Frail legs supported by a walking stick,

Grey head raised, watery eyes, wide open.

Nothing missed.

Stop to chat to an old friend, a quiet joke in passing,

How many years have we shared? Wonder once more, at the green of the trees,

The warmth of the sun,

Learning to die.

Strong men grown gentle,

Bold girls tamed with serenity

Acceptance for all but the foolish,

We are all learning to die.

Oh! to be 17 again.. and in Love

Do you remember,

The sweet rapture of youth?

Those first tender kisses.

The pain of a passion so great.

that time, could not, would not,

surely, erode.

The completeness of trust,

That would always endure

No thoughts of betrayal

No dashing of dreams

It was so, I know so,

I was there, It was me.

Time passes.

The rosy hued glasses

at first scratched and

 fading, lie broken,

discarded.

Two halfs now are parted.

Hearts broken, Souls shaken.

A love now forsaken.

No thoughts of tomorrow,

despairing and sorrow.

Alone now and hurting,hope dying,

soul crying. Despair now.

But then!

An eye glimpsed in turning,

A fever is burning.

Hearts all aflutter

bittersweet yearning.

Life is worth living.

Time for forgiving.

a new hope, a morning.

True love is dawning.

Oh! to be 17 again..

and in love.

The Skateboarder

He walks down the road

Backpack slung over one shoulder

Obligatory, baggy, half mast trousers

Sherpa Tensing hatted

His Deck tucked lovingly beneath his arm

Dangerous! Bloody nuisances! I hear in passing

Get them off the streets, they've got a park

Sterile, safe and predictable

Streetwise bravado, the thrill of danger, the camaraderie of friends

In years gone by, we channelled this, cultivated heroes fit for wars and early graves

Are they any less for the things they do?
At least he's not on drugs

He's a nice boy looking for some small thrills

And yes, he risks life and limb in pursuit of a small moment of ecstasy

A perfect Ollie, Kickflip or Nosegrind

(Did I mention he speaks in tongues)?

Shaven headed or dreadlocked hair, earring flashing, quick smiled, bad mouthed

All, some mothers son.

The River

Bright, shining and unsullied,

The river seems to flow.

In deep midstream, she swirls her skirts

And flirts with rocks below.

But, closer to the waters edge her purity is hidden.

The detritus of human life,

Uncalled for and unbidden.

Adorned along the river’s bank her trees and bushes sigh,

With paper rags and necklaces,

Strung out as if to dry.

She hides her face amid the roots,

Her shame is not forgiving.

But still and all, she is quite fine, a bride in tarnished linen. 

Lunar

The moon rose bleak,

By nature a woman bereft,

No lover to admire her round perfection.

No parent to enfold her

Her heart was cold

Her lives were numberless

Ancient, barren wilderness,

Envious of earths’ abundance

Soulless and eternal

Dead!

The Last Leaf

And naked in the Autumn Standing

One last leaf, as if demanding

One last grasp, tenacious, holding

One last act, before dying.

Floating down, sighing sighing.

Pick thy bones, oh! Mother tree

And in the Springtime,

Think of me …………….

Wet June

The rain falls on steaming, green sloped jungle

No gentle summer showers these, but vertical rain!

Great huge drops

Monsoon weather in India or the East.

But, here in the valleys a warm, wet June day,

The little river, turbulent, brown and mud-thickened rushes past, tugging at its banks as if to

 gather it up in its wet embrace and

loathe to loose its hold.

Mist wraithed hills, wet carpeted for grey bedraggled sheep, bedding down in shoulder high bracken.

A mournful, cunning band,

 planning their next foray into the Valleys' gardens.

Opaque, wet washed skies, watery sunshine, vaguely discerned.

Windborne scents, dampened honeysuckle, and the green, green smell of grass.

And down in the valley itself, pot holed puddles, provide endless amusement, for dripping, t-shirted kids, oblivious

To insidious trickles, creeping down necks

 and seeping through shoes.

Just another wet day in June.