The boat rolls gently on the wave
A small bird’s flying by
We know the sea’s a sailor’s grave
And like the breeze we sigh
The seaweed’s washed up on the beach
It’s scent is on the air
Her sailor’s soul is out of reach
Winds blow the widow’s hair
An eagle soars above the shore
The tide is on the turn
It flies above the sailor’s grave
A widow’s left to yearn
The tern dives in the gentle wave
Then rises to the skies
And flies above the sailor’s grave
A lonely widow cries
Whitebait are caught there in a net
The fisherman’s at sea
There are to be more widows yet
It’s what is going to be
The widow’s weeping by the bay
The orphans by her side
Yet these sad times will pass away
For goodness will abide
The boat lulls on the gentle calm
Soon no clouds in the sky
In stillness is a gentle balm
And widow’s tears will dry
From: “Typists in the towers”
“The celandine’s in flower again
It’s early days of spring
The cycle starts again once more
Ah, hear the blackbird sing
The winding path beside the stream
White clouds sail slowly by
All’s still just like some sort of dream
And yet she had to cry
Once more life’s cycle is renewed
Once more false hope is here
Like just another calm prelude
For villainy is near
These yellow petals growing bright
The Celandine seems sweet
And whilst they’re pleasing as a sight
All love is in retreat”
Over the last decade and more I have watched a small hazel grow into a lovely well formed tree. It has been worth the wait. It carried its first few nuts last year. It inspired this:-
A Hazel nut that fell last fall
Was sprouting on that hill
Mid stones from some old tumbling wall
Where soil had lost its chill.
Its verdant leaves could get full sun,
Good fast growth could be made.
Before too many years were done
Folk would enjoy their shade.
A hazel switch might well be used
To chastise man or boy,
Though sweetest things might be abused
Where they ought bring great joy.
Resiliently will Hazels grow,
Despite big Oaks and shade,
As they seek out the Sun’s sweet glow
Around each wood and glade.
A Holly bush it grew there too,
Was green throughout the year
And close by was a bank of rue,
That herb grows lush round here.
This Hazel bent in mighty gales
That tore down Oak and Ash.
It witnessed many dreadful ails,
Saw ancient houses crash.
It watched the fickleness of Fates.
It lived long in folklore.
And as each passing storm abates
It springs back straight once more.
© T Morgan 15.2.2016
How unpredictable are events!
Whirligig of change
There’s a series of things,
A sequence of events
That flows from cause to consequence.
They can be put straight down to chance
Or blamed upon mere happenstance
And some may say with sad laments
That Satan set the circumstance.
Although we’re vexed, well, maybe
From chaos and complexity,
About the way that things may go
And where they’ll lead us who can know.
As consequence becomes new cause
Events flow on without a pause;
For they seem linked like endless chain
That rattles along and past again.
As in a gapless, seamless dance
We’re driven on by hapless chance.
A whirligig of spirals flow
And where they’ll take us
Who can know?
Yes – there’s a series of things
A chain of events
That runs ‘tween cause and consequence…
© T Morgan, 1st May 2002, revised 2016