It’s not the great beer that draws us all here,
It’s not classy wine that tastes so damn fine,
It’s not flavoured gin, that was once mother’s ruin,
It’s not vintage brandy, the shorts, or the shandy,
It’s not fancy mixers, the whiskey, the spritzers,
It’s not cider, crisps, cocktails, scratchings or mocktails.
“It’s only a song….”
Only a song? Goodness me, no! You’ve got it all wrong!
It’s caged birds, flying free,
Priceless art, poetry.
Bygone films, scented rose,
Pitch-perfect, pure prose.
If my best self could take my hand,
Guide me safely through troubled lands,
The only thing I’d need is me,
Rough seas would part, so I could see,
That life won’t always be like this,
I’d give me a reassuring kiss,
A tender touch upon my shoulder,
To give me strength & make me bolder,
A gentle thought, a caring deed,
Calming words that I would heed,
I’d promise me to treat me kinder,
Sometimes we need a small reminder,
To love ourselves, to know our worth,
And celebrate our earthly birth,
For while we live with what we cope,
We must never, ever give up hope,
Our time here’s gifted for special reasons,
To cross the paths of rhymes & seasons,
So give yourself a warm embrace,
Stand proud amongst the human race.
Today I saw an alien!
It wasn’t very big,
It stopped my big feet in their tracks,
I almost ran & hid!
There’s a hushed, eerie quietness, restful, unknown.
All sheep are silent, the song birds have flown.
This veil of first twilight, creeping, in peace,
The yawning day’s ending; its happy release.
Stillness surrounds the blackness of night,
Transfixed and bewitched, as if frozen with fright.
Not even a leaf or stark twig stirs in pity,
Miles from the busying buzz of the city.
Reliant on senses, the dark calls the tune,
Its symphonic movements cast far away, strewn.
The stream trickles melodies, owls hoot their songs,
Silently flapping, the bat beats along.
Honeysuckle scented notes
Cast aromatic weaves,
I need to linger longer
In a place I’m loathed to leave.
Life is a bouquet of glorious colour,
Transforming all that it brings.
Its intricate fragility, gossamer;
Vibrant, like butterfly wings.
With superb imperfection, every last petal
Unfolds; from petite, peachy buds.
Offering freely, a silken sheen wilderness,
Fragrant; where sweet nectar floods.
Apocalyptic, swirling mist,
Casting forth its blight,
Camouflaging daytime hours,
Threatening the night.
Consuming images, closing in,
Engulfing distant dreams,
Suffocating every view,
Sketching every scene.
Seventy five years in the passing,
The 6th of June; brave troops amassing.
Nobody knew how countless would pay,
For saving our souls that proud D-Day.
From hillsides, valleys, towns & moors,
They set off, leaving British shores.
A rendezvous of military purpose,
They called it Piccadilly Circus.
