June 8, 2014

 

 

 

 

Those feet that trod

the steepest hill,

and conquered Everest

with time to kill,

 

are those same feet

that started life,

repaired at birth

by the surgeons knife.

 

Those feet that trod

the great incline,

pushed on by strength

within a determined mind,

 

are those same feet

that beat the odds,

and won the race

and reached the gods.

 

Those feet not ever

meant to go,

crossed the line in style

for the victor’s show.

 

Proving all is possible;

hope overcoming doubt,

even if little chance given

when first stepping out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in amongst

the changing shades,

first to arrive

in the wooded glades

 

are magical snowdrops,

so delicate and pure;

like oyster satin,

they have allure.

 

And each daisy sown

by God’s own hand,

is joined by buttercups

across the land.

 

And dandelions too,

from an anonymous seed

spring forth in abundance

exclaiming ‘I’m no weed’.

 

And all the bluebells

swaying in the woods;

a mass of joy

with compact hoods

 

sit well against

the lily pond;

a gift to behold

all summer long.

 

And clover forming

A tight knit mass;

four leaves a wish,

for some lucky lass.

 

And oh, the nettles,

how they sting!

but a nearby dock leaf,

relief, will bring.

 

All this for free

in God’s own garden,

that we mow down

and ask for pardon,

 

preferring flowers

more cultivated;

each one a hybrid,

loosely related.

 

The origin always,

a species, old,

now unrecognisable

with blooms so bold.

 

Like prickly roses

in all colours and shapes,

that compete for first prize

in the bragging stakes.

 

And yet, year after year

in his reliable way,

God’s blanket of kindness

returns, come what may.

 

So that natural beauty

we can embrace,

and proving, if proof be needed

that weeds do have a place.

 

 

 

June 5, 2014

 

 

To catch a moment

so defined,

and release the stress

as you unwind,

 

and hold it til

it disappears,

then find you’ve conquered

all your fears,

 

is worth the effort

of the catch;

a moment seized,

a perfect match.

 

Held tight til

sunshine re-appears

and dries away

those fallen tears.

 

 

 

 

 

and all the others

in between

were cast out

by a demon gene,

that threads it’s way

back into play,

in another form,

in a different way.

 

and then they mock

and say they knew;

time changes not

the damaged few,

who aren’t repentant,

who aren’t ever free

of the stigma left

from the Judas tree.

 

 

 

 

and Nancy told her

when she was nine,

as they played skipping rope

with the washing line,

 

and she ran indoors

calling Nancy a liar,

but it was no lie,

it did transpire.

 

Her mother’s face

now white with shock,

beckoned her to sit

by the ticking clock.

 

That child is

never his, she said;

and she should know,

for she was led

 

along the same

path of disgrace;

a tormented future

so to face.

 

But that child, not his,

did still remain

within their loving

family frame.

 

Unlike the one

without a name

who was never destined

to stake that claim.

 

And her loyalty switched

with the changing tide,

as she jumped ship

to the other side.

 

And poor young Nancy

was never forgiven,

for blurting out the truth

that should have stayed hidden.

 

 

 

 

 

Whilst dusting the corners of her mind,

amongst the debris lost with time,

she came across an abandoned wish;

a forgotten plea, based on pure anguish.

 

And how she thanked the powers that be,

who crushed that dream, never meant to be.

So ill thought out when straws were clutched,

and the edge of insanity, almost touched.

 

For in the intervening years between,

grew a life well lived, from a shattered dream,

and countless blessings and guidance shown

towards a path of happiness she now did own.

 

And the longing yearned for, it was clear to see

would have been the certain death of she.

And oh the mess, had it come of age;

that wish never granted, by a wiser sage.

 

 

 

 

At one with you,

at two with her;

needing companionship

with an hour to spare.

 

At three with you;

an hours sleep to share.

The gaming table’s fixed

or so you swear!

 

At four with you;

no time to spare.

A lost sock left

under a hotel chair.

 

At five with her,

in daylight’s glare.

A quick farewell;

the day to prepare.

 

At six with her;

part of a pair.

A phone call home;

love waiting there.

 

At seven with you,

on the road to where

groundhog day begins,

on a wing and a prayer.

 

 

 

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