three wee poems

the bush

This morning I woke up to rare spring rain.

the thyme had been thinning greying

in the desert front

midst of cobwebs and drooping straps

carelessly dealt with.

With rain it shines and enlivens.

No watering can can compare.

It's all it should be

all of a sudden.

By afternoon dull thiness is back, almost,

for hope's colour just remains

and a tiny trace of body, or mind.

life long learning

Treason, strange word nowadays

in a world of sharing

your secret's with me

your face my book

William Joyce was hanged.

He hated Jews.

That wasn't nice.

his poor parents died before him

which was a good thing

and if he were alive today

ever in his prime

to witness his death and aftermath

and ever after

wouldn't he feel the fool

Time wounds all heels 

and heals all wounds

thank you 

Your music somehow does it

the mood

for spare stark words

I feel precise and languid

warmly human and sans nonsense

a kind of love

disembodied unfortunately

but that has its place

a place that saves