Bluebell time

The seasons turn and we have Bluebells in our woods now.
So I wrote this today.


Bluebell time

There in most of our shady dells,
Now most of Spring has been,
We have the beauty of bluebells;
They make a tranquil scene.

The snow drops they are now long gone.
Anemones all fade.
Narcissus here is now out-shone
In this blue painted glade.

The bluebells show, will seem but brief,
Here on the ground below.
The trees are coming into leaf,
Their shade will slowly grow.

The seasons turn, but each returned,
And earth warms with each spring.
In February how, we yearned,
Hark, hear each Robin sing.

And then in most out shady dells,
As each new spring is seen
We have the beauty of bluebells;
They make a tranquil scene.

© Trevor Morgan, 30/4/20128

The great death of birds (A.D.671)

There is a strange death of birds recorded in England in AD671.
It was so marked that it was recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.
this could have been avian flu. There was also a mention of a plague.
It all reads like people caught flu from the birds.

The great death of birds (A.D.671)

Great droves of crows lay cold and dead
Bird song was rarely sung.
It seemed few fluttered overhead;
Dead doves lay in the dung.

There was Werm venom in the air
But not close to the ground.
Birds of the wing died everywhere,
Folk missed their merry sound.

The Blackbirds’ songs were silent then,
The Skylark was not seen
And absent was the dainty Wren;
All tear stained was our Queen.

For near a year few were to hear
The pipit or the crow.
Sad silence brought a sense of fear
In Midgard here below.

At Yuletide some great swans flew by
Above a Gewissae Queen
And she was heard sadly to sigh,
But smile at what was seen.

A single Robin came to her
And ate from out her hand.
“Not gold, nor frankincense, nor myrrh,
Could ever be so grand!”

The winter seemed less cold, less bleak,
This bird brought warmth, brought love.
The Queen herself went then to seek
The word of God above.

But great men of the Church knew not
Why all of this had been;
For who may know the why or what –
God’s mysteries are supreme!

So sadder though and wiser then
Her eyes seemed open wide,
As she consoled her great lord when
He was took ill and died.

© Trevor Morgan, 17/4/2018
From: “The Children of Gewis”

Mull Weather Song

The Island of Mull is beautiful.
But when visiting take rain coats.
I wrote this a while after my last visit. I must go again!

Duart Castle

Mull Weather Song
(Tune: Grave Diggers Song from “Oh what a lovely war”)

The windscreen wipers go “swish-swish”,
As we drive all round Mull.
The one thing that we always wish,
Is weather that’s not dull.
The windscreen wipers go “swish-swish”,
As we drive all round Mull.

The rain is going “pitter-pat”,
As we walk here on Mull.
So we must wear a coat and hat,
It rains so much on Mull.
The rain is going “pitter-pat”,
As we walk here on Mull.

The winds they blow a howling gale,
As we admire each view.
Old sun tans fade and we turn pale,
Then all our skin turns to blue.
The winds they blow a howling gale,
As we admire each view.

The waves they beat upon the shore,
As we walk by the coast.
Mull weather wets us more and more,
It’s time for tea and toast.
The waves they beat upon the shore,
As we walk by the coast.

The windscreen wipers go “swish-swish”,
As we drive all round Mull.
The one thing that we always wish.
Is weather that’s not dull.
The windscreen wipers go “swish-swish”,
As we drive all round Mull.

© Trevor Morgan 23 April 2004

The widow wept a while

After great heroes die others must just get on with life.
Strange how there are tales of heroic deaths but few of heroic acts of getting on with life! 


The widow wept a while

His widow there, ah, how she wept;
Then got on with her life.
Her raging man was dead and gone.
But so too was the strife.

Her folk had gone from ebb to flow
As victories came in heaps,
But where’s the glory, grand on show,
Where each new orphan weeps?

Of soldiers who went off to fight
Too many were now dead.
And where’s the glory in the plight
Where widows’ tears are shed?

Great leaders may well win their wars
And mock their foes that fled.
But sad and dismal are the chores
Of those who tend the dead.

For those young men now dead and cold,
Young men who had been brave,
Are each wrapped in their shrouds soft fold
And gone unto the grave.

The dead see not a love child grow
Nor greet each warming sun,
So, where’s the glory, let us know,
When leaders say “We won!”

Yes, widows then, ah, how they wept,
Then got on with each chore.
Their Soldier-men were dead and gone
All gone forever more!

© Trevor Morgan, 12/4/2018

From: “The Children of Gewis”


Most of my ambitions have led to disappointment.
Most that is bar one!




Ambition like a warm seductive whore
Will give her warm embrace.
Delusion, and a lot that’s worse and more
Will soon then take her place.
Resentment will retaliate for sure
And spit hate in your face.
Contentment may be found again once more
And stress give way to Grace.
But this can only happen when you find
Your own sweet private place.
So why do good for those who are unkind;
Content yourself with what you have – your mind.


© Trevor Morgan 5.2000

The Promoter

I have met a lot of musicians. 
Few have a good word for promoters!
I have spoken to managers and promoters.
Few have a good word to say for musicians.
I wrote this lyric as part of a series of lyrics for a fictional group in the 1960s



The Promoter

The contract he wrote was the deal
And papers lengthy and lawful,
Make it legal for him to steal;
Conditions are really quite awful.

‘Co s his partnership deals only make sense,
When he gets the dollars
And we get the cents

His payouts can suffer delay,
Contract conditions are artful.
We may get some money some day;
The interest he keeps by the cartful.


Now we must have been very dim,
To our pleading he is immune.
The money we made was for him,
When he said we’d make a fortune.


There’s one thing he likes to promote
And on this he just can’t be frank,
‘Cos we know he just loves to gloat;
‘Bout OUR cash he keeps in HIS bank.


But we signed his awful papers.
The contract we got was his deal.
We’re stuck with his lawful capers
And it’s “legal” for him to steal.

Yes his partnership deals only make sense
Where he gets the dollars
And we get the cents.

© Trevor Morgan 1997

Poor Rupert at Gallipolis – 1915

I did not read Rupert Brooke until after I served.
At the time one of his poems angered me and I wrote this.
I am no longer critical of him as once I was.
Anger has drained from me and I grieve at the waste.


Poor Rupert at Gallipolis – 1915

When the blood was draining Rupert
Draining from your bowels,
When you lay on that ship Rupert
Dying for no reason,

Was England first in your thoughts then
With its pomp and power?
Did you care for England Rupert
In that painful hour/

Rupert why did you waste your life
The only one you had?
Rupert why did you have to go:
You must have been quite mad!

So now Rupert there’s a corner
Of some foreign field,
There’s a corner poor dear Rupert
That’s forever dead.

© Trevor Morgan, 1969, revised 2018

Fallen poppy petals

I have emotional difficulty with remembrance days.
I see people who would never risk their own lives willingly and they stand in the front row at these events. The veterans are very much in the background. This is the bloody wrong way around!

poppy petal

Fallen poppy petals

Pick a poppy and it will die,
Or let it go though you may sigh.
Perhaps, then place a lily wreath
Remembering who is there beneath.

Or maybe, stand still in that place
And feel if they are touched by Grace.
Plant more poppies let then grow
So future generations know

The past that they were taken through,
And of the dead that they once knew.
Pick a poppy and it will die,
So let them grow, whilst you may sigh.

© Trevor Morgan, 2015

From: “Jutland and after”


There are no Roses on a sailor’s Grave
No lilies on the ocean wave…

War dead

I came home from the far east in 1964.
This was one of the first poems I wrote a year later and sober.

Borneo helicopters

War dead

In the way that we the living breath and live
They do not
In the way that we the living can love and have
They can not
We have time in hand to do some more with life
But they do not
We have time in hand to see some more of life
But they can not
Yes we have time in hand to do some more with life
But they do not
Were their lives wasted and put to little use?
For they complied
Were their deaths graceless, was it just abuse?
And yet they died
Now they have gone and we left in their place
Help is now too late
As, we are left to carry on the race,
It was just their fate.

© Trevor Morgan 1965

I am still looking for poems I wrote back then.
Filing is not a strong point with me!

Sonnet – Around and about

I like the discipline imposed by the sonnet form.
It is a break from long narrative verse.

lookup to the light

Sonnet – Around and about

Around and about I’m surrounded by doubt,
For all seems confusion and chaos to me.
My mind seems to reel and pivot about
To the point that I cease to be free.
But now and again I’m satisfied when
I know that there’s nothing that I must rue.
It’s rare but it happens just now and then,
Some slightest faint Hope may come into view.
Though Hope may be choked by dull lethargy;
It can grow if it’s shown sweet tender care,
For joy is more use than a sad elegy,
So, Hope needs to spread around everywhere.
Look up to the light forget the dark spite
And in all you do here, seek to do right!

© Trevor Morgan, 21/4/2018