Sonnet – Her little boy

The English they only have one king they call great.
This is Alfred, or Aelfrede, meaning Elf Council or advice. This could also mean talks to elves, implying deviousness perhaps. Many old English names have similar origins. Elvis, for example means elf wise or wisdom of the elves.
It is not known at what age children were given their names.
Many children can play alone merrily chatting away as if they had company, as if talking to the elves.
I suspect our great king was one such child.

Damp Wood

Sonnet – Her little boy

A little boy he played down by the stream.
He romped with glee and danced around about.
His eyes they seemed to have an elfish gleam.
His mother loved to hear him sing and shout
And watched him from afar as he would play.
It seemed as if he danced with many friends
And yet he was alone here on this day.
That stream across the meadow slowly wends;
That boy he played the whole long day away.
He seemed to talk to folk who seemed not there.
Each child may play in every way they may,
His childhood it was lived so free of care.
His mother’s words this son would always heed;
This youngest boy of Her’s she’d named Aelfrede.

© Trevor Morgan, 25/6/2018

I like to imagine historic characters as very young children


I wonder what he talked about with his elf companions?

Sonnet – Vague awakening

Concussion is best avoided. In 1999 I failed to avoid it.
My first clear memory was in hospital having a wound fixed and I remember nothing for up to an hour before the accident.
What I have had are wisps from dreams, all blurs, so I thought I would try to describe them.


Sonnet – Vague awakening

I gazed upon some blood upon my hand.
I knew not where I was nor what had been.
I lay there dazed and failed to understand
As all about things had the strangest sheen.
These steps on which I lay, they seemed to sway
As pain erupted in my eyes and head.
Pedestrians went past upon their way.
About me now some mumbled words were said,
Some people gazed at me as I lay here.
I tried to move but things went dark awhile
And then there seemed to rise, that eerie fear;
Where eyes they seemed so cold but mouths they smile.
I thought I saw a child now so long dead
And felt the blood here trickling from my head.

© Trevor Morgan, 24/6/2018

I had an 8 inch long wound across my head. It seems a ladder fell on me.
I remember a voice saying “This will not sting” as the wound was glued back.
That was a lie. What a sting that was. It was a neat job and I am thankful to the staff at the Northern General Hospital.
Head injury is strange in its effects and for a while things were a bit weird.

No healing of hate

I tire of lists of past wrongs. Whether it is complaints of colonialism of long ago or religious or political crimes. “Let the dead bury the dead.”(Luke9:60) There is much joy to be found in life.

lost soul

No healing of hate

The hatred of a foe to some is sweet.
It justifies the rages that they feel.
All vengeance they may savour like some treat,
But causing pain does not cause hate to heal.
In time it turns inwards towards the soul
And harms the very thing it seeks to save.
The spirit then will never seem quite whole,
The path of hatred will at end deprave
And justify the darkest crimes of all
And lead in all things always on to strife.
Such ways may only lead men to the fall
So that they waste the very best of life.
For hate and rage lead no one on to Grace
But make this world of ours a sad and dismal place.

© Trevor Morgan, 22/6/2018

From: “Tales of the sorrowful”

Sonnet – The slaves of cold rage

People seem alarmed by hot rage.
They see the openly bad tempered person as in some way a major menace to others.
The real danger comes from those who harbour cold dark and secret rage. They are more likely to kill. Imams amongst Jihadi groups know this and in a sort of grooming process, nurture cold dark rage in the tools they use, those tools are the gullible amongst the young.

spiral downSonnet – The slaves of cold rage

Hot rage is soon burned out the mind is cleared
And so returns the cold clear light of day.
But cold rage of the soul ought be well feared,
For raging men themselves becomes its prey.
Cold rage when it controls the hearts of men
It has a way to justify all wrong.
When men remain a slave to it, it’s then
They go to where such rage filled folk belong.
They go upon a tour of Purgatory.
They purge themselves with their own rage and hate.
The wrathful on themselves are predatory.
They drain themselves and seal their own sad fate.
Though slaves of rage bring havoc to a land
They lose to little things they may not understand.

© Trevor Morgan, 20/6/2018

From: “Tales of a darkened soul”

Sonnet – The Logic of Loki

Loki was the Norse “god” of fire, mischief and cunning.
After he insulted all the other “gods” individually at a feast by telling them some home truths they bound him to a rock deep underground. Deep down there he cause earthquakes!

This story seems to be saying you just cannot stop mischief in the world or bad things happening even if you are the Norse “gods”.


Sonnet – The Logic of Loki

“There’s folly in all judgements and in none,
There’s folly all about and in all life.
There’s folly in all deeds and what’s not done.
There’s folly when at peace or in dark strife.
There’s certainty that’s true in total doubt.
There’s doubt within each sure and firm belief;
This seems the way that chaos turns about
And spins us all through joy and bleakest grief
And holds us safe in insecurity,
Like snowflakes tossed about by gale or breeze
Each heads for what they may not know may be.
Though few are rarely ever here at ease;
For starving freemen give up all just to be fed,
Whilst slaves, well fed, might sooner yet be dead”

© Trevor Morgan 18/6/2018

From: “Tale of a darkened soul”


In the original old Norse the word used to describe these beings is “powers” and not “gods”. They were not immortal but aged slower than people and were kept from growing old by eating the apples of Idunn.

Loki was the Norse “god” of uncertainty of change and of fire, a trickster and an enemy of Odhinn the leader of the “gods” of Asgard.
He seems to fulfil the role of the pantomime villain which makes him a lively character to write about.

Sonnet – Lovers Unconsoled

There is no easy way out of loss, out of bereavement.


Sonnet – Lovers Unconsoled

So lonely are the lovers unconsoled,
Now counsellors have listened to their words.
The one they love they will no longer hold;
While souls in grief just cannot soar like birds
And emptiness is not a thing to share.
But mundane tasks are still there to be done,
While sympathy well may be everywhere,
In grief there is a process to be run.
Voids in the soul are opened up by grief
And whilst it’s hard to ever see an end,
With time and little things there is relief,
Whether it is with children or a friend.
While there is horror in a bloody strife
Joy will be found when getting on with life.

© Trevor Morgan 14/6/2018

Sonnet -The Kola Graveyard

Sailors in the Royal Navy can spin a good Yarn.
Tales told of the Arctic convoys are the most cruel of all. Worse still these tales are dark, disastrous and TRUE.
Some escorts were lost within sight of Murmansk and crews froze to death in the waters of the north

Arctic Convoy001

Sonnet -The Kola Graveyard

The waters of the North are cold and wild.
Ice may form there upon the upper decks
Of ships that ventured there from climes more mild.
The sea’s floor there is littered with sad wrecks
For one by one, small ships died in the fight.
Yet in death they secured the rise of hope,
Though u-boats struck with all their stealth and might,
Despite each loss these escorts were to cope.
Of those destroyed there on this icy sea
As they brought aid to that beleaguered land
That fought with them that Europe might be free
Of tyrannies some Nazi filth had planned.
And many men who ventured through that cold
Were marked by fate so they would not grow old.

© Trevor Morgan, 13/6/2018

From: “Arctic Elegies”

Sonnet – Final Despair

Many leave us in despair for what they had not done;
Live today try not to be despondent.


Sonnet – Final Despair

He gazed upon a shipwreck and he saw it was his life
With all the bits of Hope along the shore
For Fate it seems she likes to twist the knife,
A missed chance passed beyond him like before.
Ambition was in bits like flotsam now;
Each little piece like what just might have been
Turned his beach to a sort of mess somehow;
This was a thing he wished he had not seen.
To seek to do good work leads to a fall,
To strive with might and main a pointless thing,
To dream you might achieve a siren’s call;
It’s life not death that bears the poison sting!
The earth it spiralled on about the sun,
This dying microbe grieved for things not done.

© Trevor Morgan, 9/6/2018

From: “Tales of Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians”

Sonnet – Dylan Sings Eternally

In Welsh mythology Dylan sang so beautifully his voice did not die.
It is still heard in the winds over the Severn Sea.
It is a good choice of name for a singer with a beautiful voice, but perhaps not for any average singer.


Sonnet – Dylan Sings Eternally

So Dylan drifts about and softly sings
Off coasts he can be heard in calm or squall.
His fingers may have ceased to pluck the strings,
His gods it seemed had gone, had met their fall.
Yet Dylan seems content, his songs lived on;
The winds across the Severn Sea hum sweet.
This poet, this great bard, cannot be gone
So long as folk have hearts, good hearts that beat
And souls that seek to soar up with the birds
Proclaiming out aloud, of life, of love,
Of all that may be said with rhythmic words
That like the birds soar everywhere above.
There’s more than merely words within a lay;
Through poesy and through song Love’s on display.

© Trevor Morgan, 8/6/2018

Sonnet – Honeysuckle Sweet

I sensed the scent of Honeysuckle in the air last night.
This is a season of flowers and I love it.


Sonnet Honeysuckle Sweet

As in a hedge the Honeysuckles grow
Entwining round about each branch and twig.
Its flowers blossom forth in wondrous show
And there’s few shrubs that may well grow so big
That Honeysuckle cannot reach its crown
And put forth scent that calls out to each moth
To seek and drink its sweetest nectar down.
Like balm this sweetness takes away all wrath,
But Honeysuckle may not yet grow free;
It seems it needs support to gain great height,
Perchance this is the way that thing must be
And yet it is most comely to the sight.
For Honeysuckle is the hedgerow’s queen
And never was a finer sight yet seen.

© Trevor Morgan, 5/6/2018