blckbird

Timed to perfection our tracks crossed
I to home at half passed twelve
she too rode the other way.
I had a friend ,she was his girl
lovely,dark point chinned
tall as me,coal black eyes
heavy in her blouse
laughter in her voice;
lovely again,I thought and dad too.
Ray was his name
brash confident team mate;
we ran miles together
the best in town.
I the captain,Ray,loyal at number two
road or track,we shared the prize.
They quarrelled much,I the intercessor;
I loved her from afar and she I think did me
but never ever said.
They quarrelled once
I again the intercessor,
we to the pictures, the Regal
not spendid in the light
but in the brightness of my love
it earned the name.
We sat and shared the scenes
our seats touched (and hearts?)
but not our hands or knees;
Van Johnson on the screen,
she said I had his face,
innocent, I missed the touch of words.
Then home,to hers,we walked
before their gate we only talked
then home......alone again.
I walked to mine.

Two of a pair,both of the earth
symbols of affection
declaring love and loyalty
to be worn in faith;
of the body and the soul
do not use them lightly
gifts as these, give only once
they are rare and must be so
one discrete upon the breast;
the blood red rose fades fast;
declare it every day.

Walking through the clover
autumn grass and long,
silver as my fading hair,
damp in the dewy morn;
a stirring at my feet
quaking seed-heads, brown and ripe,
a lowly snake,green and cold
tangling at my feet
brushed my sandalled socks.
He had more right than me, so
I stood and watched him
uncurl his slippery coil,
alarming slug and snail,
pushed him with my stick
so's not to hurt the pure complexion;
his attack on me was not offence
he as scared as me.

A welcome shower today
cracks in the lawn now healing
rosettes of next year's flowers
turn green again;
long grass waits scythe and sickle
mice scurry through the straw,
thistle wool and rose hips
red crab fuit for March,
heavy strigs,groaning branches
to the ground.
Do I hear them sigh ?
the rain has gone away
the Wrekin clear again,
the aerial standing clear
dusty streets, autumn leaves
and blowing plastic bags.

Orange flower out of season
growing by the wall
surprised as much as me ?
If I ask you why
can you;will you tell me ?
is there time to ripe your seeds
before the frosts invade?
have you changed your mind
will you flower next year ?
Hover flies and butterfies
will company you as in the spring
and I shall take your seeds
upon the window-sill.
Will they too bloom late
next year, before the frosts invade ?
can we make a pact
a promise both will keep,
to be here as of today ?
a glass of wine and siblings,
laughter,orange blooms
growing by the wall.

We painted the gable end
filled in the cracks,
the ladder from a neighbour,
covered up the leaf stains
from the bay and rambling rose
ten years I think it lasted
facing south blazing in the summer
south-west winds and snow
one stroke of paint,no more turning back!
county cream they call it
the once moss-green turned mouldy
ten years it must have been,
two coats,one transformation.
Shame to cut the bay and rose,
but they'll be back in ten years
for another coat of paint.

They were there before me
some how out of place
well dressed, watch
and pendant, gold about her neck
careful hair and smiling eyes
blue as I recall, like mine.
I was alone but joined her
for awhile across the café tables
as they read the menu;
looked away when she looked up
so’ s not to seem to stare.
They agreed and so he ordered
She smiled upon his back…..
Never once stopped smiling
heard him ask big breakfast;
her dress belied the menu
his too was smart, no tie,
corduroy pants with slanting pockets
shoes to match his style;
She in blue well cut.
Her smile lit up the room…
for them this was a special day
on their way to some where....
no one ever stays for long.
He asked her tea or coffee
and if a cup or mug,
she smiled again,
her eyes and lips in unison
This was a happy day
perhaps the first of many.
I made my paper last
let them go into the street
followed close behind
before the handle cooled,
saw them to the car park
looked away when she glanced back
So’ s not to seem to stare.

A sea of cookers rippling to the walls
calm, glazed, silver black and shiny
a's and b's and sometimes c's
all at three feet high;
made to fit where ever,
close your eyes, choose any one
you'll not be disappointed,
one shape fits all
one height,two widths,one depth
prices to suit your pocket;
defered or plastic,now or never
they'll come next week
and throw away the old one..

Again the air is still
the mist hangs silken folds
shadows in the curtains
waiting for the sun,
desultory shutters in the streets
roll back,shirts and shoes
early tea and breakfast
beside the bus stop's rumble.
Friday market bargains
unsigned vans spilling
well known brands at half the price,
kaleidescopic nations,babel tongues
jingling coins in apron folds.
Here since thirteen hundred
its charter on the wall,
the very heart of town
four times a week,'til four,
wrapped in Victorian splendour.
You'll find it here,what e're you want,
if not they'll get it for you.

So still today,the air clear and crystal
pink the couds as yesterday
the corn comes in, four tons to a load
stubble in the fields,straw and rabbits
bales, thermos flasks and sandwiches,
yellow lights in cottages,children snug in bed;
late harvest bonus before the rain.
Winter could be soon,always sooner than one thinks
don't be caught out, money in the bank,
Micklemas, bonfire, Advent Eve and Christmas
Santa Claus but twelve weeks
but not until the potatoes,
the hanging beef and pig.

His nails were proud and aquiline,
searching in the cardboard case,
cotton reels and thimbles,
but it was the buttons mother bought
stitched to a blue-white card;
pyjama jackets, shirts for school,
through the mangle every week
until they bent....or the soda in the water
which ever was the first!
Some times Mam would say
there was nothing that she needed
offering him a penny no, he'd say
scrabble in his case..........
proud nails, aquiline and strong,
a toy for me.......
no charity for Felix.

We had no plans except to meet
a long time since the last
caught up the news before we left
then fifteen miles and pretty flags
beside the canal in Ellesmere.
A festival of boats and brass
plant pots,garish paint and dogs
upon the prow, dodging folding chairs
ropes and rings on the tow path gravel.
stalls,organic jams and cakes
smells and thumping diesels.
shapely blouses rainbow in the sun,
floppy hats men cameras and white legs
plastic wind mills, candy floss;
perhaps the last of summer cotton.
Cross the bridge,its horse shoe scratches,
a retriever caked in mud
its lead about my legs,owner in despair,
none fell in that day but it was close
and if we had few would care
its only four feet deep.
through the meadow by the cut
to find a quiet lane
memories of childhood spring
the glistening mere,beyond the hill
white steam launch from a railway brochure,
seagulls,ducks and incontinent geese.
Coffee,cream and Bakewell tart
in the rebuilt cafe,closed two anxious years,
no cosy drapes or carpets no feathers on the walls
no scratches on the table, matching salt and pepper
Fifteen miles again,kiss goodbye,
come again next week,walk the canal,
not Ellesmere but Llangollen.

When you come back,
if you come back,
come soon
If you come back and when
come soon
the past stretches
far beyond eternity
the future but tomorrow,
but only if you
come soon.
I know you'll try
you did n't want to leave.
there is much we need to do
when you come back
there is no if,
come soon.

Shining ginger brown
heavy doors and windows
a bygone age
of whistle steam and smoke
waiting in the autumn sun
of an afternoon in Wales
pride in every brush stroke.
Doors ajar to cool
before the ride
Aberystwyth bound.
Two foot tracks
bifercate across the yard
cameras clicking welcome
clanking pistons hiss of steam
now we're ready,climb the steps
shut the doors,here comes the guard
return to child-hood days
nostalgia steam and smoke
Devils Bridge and aching legs
tea and cakes at four

We stood the moorland hill
watched the quilted valleys
their greens and yellow harvest;
stood midst bracken-brown and heather
winberry fruits and bees,
pale silent blue and clouds
weekend eve,drowsy pubs at four.
cattle lowing, chewing grass
in the valley bottoms.
the tiring sun sinks
below Long Mountain top
shivers down our spines
autumn mellow,Red Kite
one last glide 'til night.
Call back the dogs
they've had their day
and so have we
whisper as we go,
on our way to home.

Soft evening closes the day
like a loving father,
peeping in retreat
from his sleeping child,
closes the landing door,and
slippered treads the stairs.
The day has earned its rest
and sinks its golden eye
beneath the blanket trees
and curtain clouds.
Tired workers come home
to rest and then
with appetites replete
recreated,slip into the dusk,
or sit before the hearth
and re-count in gentle tones
the days news
histories to go unprinted

Sluggish hearts,dutifully kept alive
now beat to other rhythms,
feet once heavy dance and skip
lips and day parched tongues
take up a song;
the long day closes and
the gentle lyric of evening
rises, as did the lark
above the dewy grass and nodding trees;
for this we earned our pay
the harder worked the more
the evensong we hear

Dark eyes,brows not as our own
no lashes to seduce
yet speak a thousand thoughts
unspoke,secure beneath a noble brow
nothing unheeded nothing unremarked
enigmatic understanding,
nothing passes observation
all accepted without demure
each moment like its neighbours,
lets time go by
knows when time for dinner,
a walk depending on my shoes
fetching slippers in the morning
dressing gown and cups of tea
listening to the radio
there'll be a walk today..... always is
watching every move......
rattling keys and telly off,
drink of water,sit and wait,
don't get excited,just be good
its always worked.

I did not know
until I rang.....
yesterday you said
sooner than expected
sooner for you both
the weeks of waiting
now no longer needed.
Add them to the future
It is a risk we take
when making friends
which makes it
all worth while.
Hold the memories
still, close, and shared
with those who also loved;
life starts again tomorrow
that's if it ever stopped

Old Felix came and went
His business combs and buttons
Ones for nits, the others brass and cotton
To be squashed by wooden roll.
How big his feet in sagging shoes
How bowed his coat,herring bone and worn
A heavy coat,a winter coat,
In blazing June.
A poor man, a good man,
With eyes so blue and frank,.
He was a tramp.

He pushed a childless pram,without a hood
Left it in the street;
Card-board case opened at the door
With things to sell to Mam,
And sometimes Dad was there.
Had a little book of poems......
One was on a card,
Was it his? He said it was
No need to disbelieve
Those eyes so blue and frank

His coat... so long and worn,
Slept outside, he said,
The sweating coat in June!
Oh!...Yes!...the little book.
Was it blue?
Or....did those eyes?
Yes, what did they do?
Did he smell?
Stood without the porch,could not tell,
Did not want to know.
It was those eyes
So blue so frank
Above that coat so worn.

The war was on,buttons scarce as gold
Felix got his from a Walmgate store,
A corner store beside St.Deny's Church
We passed it every week,
But always bought from Felix.

Lent me the book.
Or was it given me?
I gave it back,I wished I'd not
He wanted me to have it.
Dead now Felix and your book
Lost beneath a tree,
But not the memory of those eyes
So blue so frank
That heavy coat in June
And hands that asked for friendship,
With a book.

THE BOOK

What was in that book,
The blue book with grubby back?
Poems beyond my years,
A little boy from Sunday School.
The card began...............
Yes,I remember now
"My mother taught me,
Mathew,Mark and Luke and John"
The rest is gone,something under a tree,
Had he sat beneath a tree to write?
But on the card the lines were print,
Not licked and leaden pencil.
Kept for years,the card now gone,
The book,I gave it back.
Worried months in-case you did not come
Gave it back....a great mistake,
To those reluctant hands
With saddened eyes
So blue and frank
And older coat,
Its back more bent.

THE COAT

Away he walked
In shuffle shoe,and stooping coat
Card-board case in tatters
The sleeves seemed longer
Fancy frills............
The herring bone had worn
To show the lining,
No leather edge like mine.
Buttons there were none,but,
Stooped and arched
The open cloth became a porch
Against the snow and rain
And sweating summer sun.
I never looked to see the pram
As empty as before?
Soundless turned the wall,
Proud along the path
Its London pride and bricks

"Who were you,?
Your hair was long uncombed,
You came down Constantine
Like Jesus Christ at Sunday school
Christ in Constantine I thought
(I was that age).......
Had trod those pavements I despised
Gentle Jesus,white and mild
Looked upon a little child
Turned........................
And walked away.

POSTSCRIPT

I wonder where he went?
He must be there by now,
Left behind the pram,
Thrown away the case
The book and pencil and the card
Left behind the memories
Of a man who left no mark.
Sufficient was the day....
He had no morrow...
Just today...............

And that old coat.

A ghost drifts through the trees
each day I call its fine of mist
warms the chill of night and moon,
cools the fretting leaves,
watching trespass foot steps
straying from the crackling paths.
Deep in the brambles none to see
none fights or seeks for food
fox and rabbit freeze and wait
to fight and run another time
the one eyed owl, half wake
mice and badger set, blend into the earth.
their secrets all their own
united great and small,discrete.
Stay with the path,
the gentle ghost upon my arm
farewell God speed
softly on my shoulder turns me to the gate
fades into the dawn and primrose hollow.
fox and rabbit,one eyed owl and badger.

Why is the chimney pot so fine
could grace an Edwardian terrace
cream wash of yesteryear,
no cracks that I can see,
proud above the stack of brick
still straight,well almost !
clay, where now we fish
dug and burnt, chalk white mortar
holding up the wrinkling wall.
Who clambered up a ladder
to crown the chimney stack ?
No I do not know,shall never know
But I know why....it was pride
that lifted up that heavy pot...
a humble hovel damp and cold
fit only for a wood man
deserves to have its day
and smoke at evening light.

The sun was high at noon,
clouds drooped above
sweating in the heat
welcome shade beneath
the magic rowan tree
But I had found another place
beneath the crosier ferns
where soft earth beside a stream
green with moss gave pillow for my head
a mound as soft as eider down
triangle cushion, three a magic number.
The magic caught me unawares
half dreamed but did not sleep
there was time enough to gaze
at the drooping clouds
and magic rowan tree.
But sleep would not wait.
There was a stirring in the earth
tremors in my ear
I searched the mossy mound
dug deep drew back the green
not knowing what to find,
the ground gave up its secret
the like of which I had not seen
wrapped in a peaty bed.
I had no jewel box to lock away this gift
did not want to lose it
took it my mouth sucked the tender white
sweeter than I ever saw
a tear upon my cheek,
woke to the evening shower
my pocket empty in the noon high sun.

The Nymph

I found the grotto in the wood
the source from which I drank
the sun was in a rage
fought away the clouds,
I should have rested long ago
rested on the mossy bank,
but I was young and knowing better
than to waste my time with sleeping.
But I was wrong..............
the road was long and I was tired
a rest could do no harm,
the nymph held out her hand
drew me to her parlour
let me sleep the day until the dusk,
then sent me on my way.

« The hut (2) |

Again I walked the wood,
As almost every day
Absorbed its mood
Mildly changing with each day.
The sun at dawn ,shafts of light
To send the owl to bed
Wake the trees, unfurl the ferns
Wipe away the morning dew,
My gloves safe in my pocket
Un-zip my jacket to the morning air
We are not alone,the dog and I
He visits friends,
Comes back when I whistle
Must run miles
As back and forth he gallops
Chasing phantoms in the sun.

I stop before the hut
Step into the past,
Feel him in the corner
By the crumbling hearth
There is no hello to greet me
He does not need me there
We are years apart
His life long since gone
The fire cold and black.

A shiver down my spine
I turn and call for Jack
He never comes in side
Never tells me why
I suppose to him its just a hut
An old man by the hearth
No rug to chew a bone.

The sun is higher now
The chill gone from the air
Crows cawing loud and friendly
The robin by my side
Did I hear a squirrel?
Badgers gone to earth.
Across the bridge and ditch
Its railway sleepers rotten
There’s been no rain,
No water for Jack to drink
We have some in the car.

Its time for home and breakfast
Farewell old man, I’ll come again
Maybe in the evening
But can we talk?
Tell me of the charcoal ,
The hurdles that you made
Pheasant suppers ,snares
And rabbit pies
The awful cold in winter
Gleaning kindling in the snow
Looking in the windows
On your way to home

The wood was heavy,green,
The clock said seven
Thermometer, twice the same.
Wenlock edge in blue-green mist
Ten miles distant, seemed much more,
Dawn had been at five
The chorus,silent for a moment,
Silence like the sea shell
On the bed-room mantle-shelf.
We had not walked our wood
For ten long days.
When last we came
The ferns were shy, pale green,unsure,
Now bold they brushed against my legs
Soaked my shoes in dew,
My trousers too were wet,
The sky was blue,unhindered
Save for two white clouds
Fading in the morning sun.
Forecast....... sunny hot.

I did not pass the hut this time
Jack, impatient would not wait
Reluctant,went ahead.
I stepped inside.........
There is no door,
(I've told you that before)
What was a door is on the floor
A step to let me in.
The silence in the hut
Was not as in the wood,
(Its sea-shell gentle hiss
Breathing in the ear)
The tone was changed,
Somehow back in time.

Through the unglazed window
I saw dark clouds.
There was no wind that day
But the walls were shaken
I looked around the room
Everything in place.......
The fire-grate on the narrow wall,
Still there.......The corner to the right.
Cobweb veils across the ceiling.
Felt cold,uneasy,did not belong.
My day was gone........
.......................
It was then I saw them,
Heard them hold their breath.
An evening tryst.........
Turning quickly, said goodnight,
Back to the morning sun.

Who they were I did not know
But tried a guess.
Lovers,many years ago?
How had they met?
A village dance perhaps?
Across a bar and lousy war-time bitter?
Slipped out"Won't be late "she said.
Jean her name? .....perhaps
A ploughman's daughter?
Could have been.......
Eighteen,newly widowed,
Conscript William... older...
Dead and all their dreams
.
"We regret" it said.
The telegram screwed up
On the kitchen floor.....
Him?....A William too,
But Bill for short.
A gunner in an aircraft's tail
Far from home,America.
Both scared by the plight of war.

The broken door was then in place
They closed it shut and quiet
In the corner by the hearth
They leaned the steel clad wall,
They needed each and took..
And did what lovers always do
When wearing heavy coats
.
I walked away along the path,
Jack in front as usual.
Bluebells ,campions,nettles,brambles,
Said hello in babel voices
And so we went,as always.

That night we went again,
But did not stop this time
In case they'd call again
(I think I would...
And so would you !)
Whistled Jack into the car
Drove down the lane
Pulled in the car-park lot
Leaned the bar
The same........
Said hello to William
Birthday-boy today.
Named after Dad he said
Killed in the war,
Mum never remarried........
I looked at Jean (she's often there)
Grey upright and handsome
How old?
We never ask,does not seem polite.

Where had I been she asked
"In Tranter's wood, with Jack"
"Ah"
"You know the place"?
" Yes I know the place"
"The hut still there"?
"Yes I often look inside,"
"The cast-iron hearth still there "
"Cracked, but the walls are firm and safe"
"I bet there are tales to tell"
She said no more...........
But looked me in the eye.

She knew I'd guessed.
I felt ashamed,
Until she smiled.........
Cast off the grey and wrinkles
Her golden youth returned
The heavy years of toil cast off
Her breasts now firm;
She was in his arms again,
Let me share the joy,
Let me share the secret
Only we could know.

How does he do it?
His brain no more than finger nail,
Perched on the roof
Singing a scale of notes I cannot sing
Nor can forget.
What does he say?
It seems he knows
But what?
Is there some communication...
A radiating beam that strikes the tiles?
The message always clearer
When he sings upon the roof.

Black as night,
She ,brown discrete,
A job to do, a clutch to feed
Keep warm and safe.
Silence is the key,
Eight is late, to bed
One last egg to hatch.

If he could write as I
Would he write it down.....
All those notes without a scale
Far more than twelve
Less ordered than our own ?
An alphabet of sounds
As random as the sea.
Would he even try ?
Each note is sent its way
The thought... if thought there be
Lost above the roof.

There is no past for him
No future ,all is now.
Do not analyse the song
There is no message ,
No thinking in the melody
But joy and being well.
Yesterday ? What is that ?
Never heard of yesterday
Of today..........doesn’t even care,
How long will it be?
What is long ? Is it a worm?
A brain no more than finger nail
Only room for hope.

Maybe I'm wrong.........
Is there a message in your song
Save joy?
Do I leave a space to listen
To you kind soul......?
Your life so short........
‘Though long enough,
Just long enough, No more.
When song is gone
So will you be gone .
It’s all you want to do.

Heavy with green the wood
Had grown without my help
These last ten days
The time was seven
The thermometer said more
I believed them both
Let the dog his way
Brushed the gentle fern
Beside the path
Its lacy fronds tempting
Longing to be stroked
I bent in worship
Silence held us all
The dog was yards away
But I was looking back
Why I knew not
To the war the Home Guard
Sentinel, watching this country lane
Of no import
There is no door today
To block the way
It lies flat on its back
Now a step "come in".
Who else had used this shelter?
Who today ?
I trod the earthen floor
The corner by the fire
The broken hearth
A welcome shelter in the cold and rain
In nineteen forty four.
Who else had come this way?
I can guess and so can you.
Two lovers in the plight of war
Came to forget, sought a kind of heaven
One memory destroying moment
To leave a blank
Wipe clean the past to fill
With stolen minutes
Groping for Utopia
Who were they ?
There name is thousands
Hardly friends, a few days here and there
A smile across the bar,
The village dance. Watched by Mum and Dad
Back to the farm
Muck out the beasts
Draw the blackout blinds
Back to the airfield
The runway in the dawn
The tidy mess. the letter on the bed.
They slipped away from Mum
Don.t be late she said
So to the hut they sought
For what?They had no plans
At least that's what they thought
The cold steel walls
Were all they had
But heavy coats undone
They warmed each other
Shared comfort, he far from home
She a widow of a month
Took him not in lust but compassion
He in gratitute gave back
She knew he'd left a gift.
Her dead Bill would understand
She would have child but only one
they’d hoped for three
Sam was killed that night.

I heard the blackbird
Shiver in the wood
Gold beak tight closed,
Ginger bracken fronds tinder dry,
In the trees raucous crows
Were silent too,
Nests half done,no sound of work.
The clock said six
But the light had gone,
My foot steps cracked the twigs
Blown down in last week's storm,
Alone I walked .took care ,
Respectful of the woodlands mood.
The wood-man's hut. metal-clad,
A chimney still intact,
Door frame and window space
No door no window pane.
Who was here and when
Chopping wood and felling trees?
Or burning charcoal
Trapped in smoke ,
Damping down the flames....
His swollen cancerous nose....
And puffing on his pipe.
The rippling walls and roof
Corrugated sheets ,rusting ,silent.
I ran a stick along the walls
But the tune was not the half
Of childhood games on city rails
And there was no one here to wake,
No need to run away.
The chimney stack in brick
Propped up the gable end.
Inside, the hearth lay bare
But the bricks were black
It had been used, but when?
The soot,
As silent as the day
Hung with insect wings.
What did this place say
Oh yes it whispered
But even in the silent evening light
I was none the wiser
The old man ,if that is what he was
Had left no trace
Perhaps had nothing much to leave.
This shed was never even his....
Like me he had the silence to himself.
I found myself nostalgic,
The cold got to my bones
The light was low,
The birds more sense than me
Had long since gone to bed.
The rabbits too and squirrel.
Romantic dreams ....a poor man
In his stable
Heavy coat for eiderdown
Candle-lamp for light.
It was time to go
I turned ,left the hut
Half wanting to repair it,
But nostalgia is a dangerous mood
My home is warm
My coat's hung in the hall
Duvet on the bed and much ,much more
Electric light..........I could go on.....
I can afford to dream....

I met you strolling in the park
A wistful beauty sad and hurt
So much I felt the pain.
I was unready, so I thought
To start another life,
But walked the park again
And stayed to walk it yet again.
Where this may lead I do not know
must not ask....Who shall I ask?
The future is not mine to know,
can but cast a backward glance
To see from whence I came
Remember every stone I tripped
Each muddy patch I trod.
There may be hills to climb,risks to take,
No more than yesterday,no less than yesterday.
The way may twist and turn,
But look no further than the bend,
Enjoy each hedge and verge,
The line is straight between
From now to then,
It is the road that turns

Earthy jewel
round and smooth
Hidden 'til today
moist and of the earth
not of the fire
within earth's belly
but from soft sands
silicates and water
nymphae rising
from this secret alchemy.
Diamonds shine, brittle cold
but here I take you
kissed and soft embraced
return you to the jewel box
velvet for your pillow
a warmth upon my lips.

The river dons its slippers
creeps across the weir
afraid to wake the willows,
and the dreaming swans;
the mill dam lies still
absorbed in its own reflections
and the village chimes
ring out an apologetic eight.
Lazy smoke from chimney stacks
smells of oak and apple,
carry God bless mummies
from childish prayers
to the waiting evening star,
orange curtained squares
look on, electric, bright
excusing the pylons
strident hordes across
the moorland hills.
Glowing distant towns
waste vaporous light
to the thankless sky
wishing to sleep and dark.

Went to the font again,
the lily shining in the moon.
Pink petals, full, expanded waited me
it was dark the last we met
evening's misty fragrance pink as now,
no need to see, none other shade
could smell so sweet,
no taste to fool the tongue.
In trust I held the bloom,
its petals opening wide;
I was in its thrall
innocent victim to its purity,
pushed aside the ferns and gazed in awe..........
Saw the corolla in all its beauty.
no jewel like to this,
mine to take this night...
this one night, alone and brief.
This garden is not mine
I must sneak the key
leave no foot tread,broken twig,or leaf,
but return as when I can,
hold the secret dream,
and close the garden gate.