I do not speak of new love, though it be
The favourite food of poets down the years:
Small wonder, for it comes so easily –
The stolen glances, furtive kisses, tears
Of tender souls just started down the path
That leads through trial today to bright tomorrows;
The jealously and joy, regret and wrath
Of hurting hearts, long leavings and sweet sorrows.
No. I will speak of love that, summer-born,
Has lived through many winters – love grown strong,
Deep-rooted and protective as the thorn,
Enduring as the earth, sure as a song.
Such love stands when all else is overthrown.
The only certainty I’ve ever known.


The drought breaks

Summer Dies

This morning brings
A triple killing:

The Sun
Smothered with a grey cloud blanket;

The cracked ground
Drowned and beaten to a pulp

And my long run of hot, dry roads
Murdered in cold rain.

A summer born and dead too soon.
And the garden sends flowers.

No place to go

Memory Lane

I started down it
Thinking –
I’m glad to be back
Here. Faces were familiar
Seemed pleased to see me;
Places appeared
Just as I left them
And every breath was charged with scents
Unchanged by clock or calendar.

But soon
I found the surface breaking up
Sharp shards of recollection
Getting in my shoes
Things long-buried
And best forgotten
Dug up and left along the roadside
Heavy traffic coming fast
Round blind corners
And no sign that suggested
It led anywhere at all.