The ancient stones of cities past,

Lie scattered all about.

The holy runes, once so great

are only now in doubt.

I look to find myself in this

But all I find is sin.

I feel, I see the echoes here

of life-my origin.

 

Les Fleurs du Mal call me on

In soft incessant dreams;

They weep, they cry, they sign, they die –

And me I hear their screams.

The Goddess Leona’s here

Upon the sun bleached walls,

I watch the runes upon her tomb

And softly hear her call.

 

O, Reader, save yourself from this

Before my tale you hear,

Else stand a hypnotised man

As Leona slowly appears

You, Reader: yes my brother,

You’ll be her victim too.

You’re nothing but a hypocrite

So pay her what she’s due!

 

Your words just failed to rally me,

(though I admit it was a near thing)

The rain just dissolved them

But such things happen

When flatterers meet

 

Your tricks have stopped amusing me

Though it’s true you do try hard

I can’t compete with flattery

Lest you catch me

Off my guard

 

You’re far too smart

For your own good

Thought I suppose

You’d disagree

To fight the world is easy

But you try fighting me

 

New Inn Hall Street

Hilary, 1976

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Farewell the summer did you say?

So factually? Without a thought for they

Who love you?

Tell me you don’t mean to lose

All we all enjoyed.

 

Farewell to gown and books today,

Put pen and ink and me away?

No more

The life of learning’s passion that

All we all enjoyed

 

Should the things that were us two

Fall into some void,

Abandoned empty skins of former lives?

I know a terminal urge grows

Within you now.

I must not need you

Till I don’t know how.

 

Farewell the vanguard of the day

My hand stumbles nervously on its way

Upon your brow,

Tell me you did not mean to lose

All we all enjoyed?

 

 

Her eyes rose at out prolix entrance,

She muttered her sentence of welcome

And was gone,

Her fingers pulled us on.

A wine cup she filled till brimming

Installed it with silken hand

And was gone,

Her fingers pulled us on

But there’s no need here of abandoned wine

Or the ash- polluted surplus of deserted ale

To thrash our senses:

Her soft talk, velvet walk, beckoned me

To follow her silently up the stairs

She was gone

Her fingers pulled me on

The rain is falling now –

And the passion’s cooled like a summer’s night

And that’s romantically the unexpected  denouement.

She has gone

Her memory lingers on…