Red Rose.

Oh Caroline dry your eyes,
You know how I hate good-bye`s,
One last kiss child, please be brave,
And put one red rose on my grave.........
Roxxgang.

Long May.

Long May.......Long May,
All covered with roses,
For some, winding sheets,
For others, wedding gowns.

Long May.......Long May,
You were short for me,
My happiness came with you,
It fled again with you.
Rossalia de Castro.

Autumn Valentine.

In May my heart was breaking -
oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.

And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
"Poor thing, do you remember?"
"What heart was that?" it cried.
Dorothy Parker.

La Belle Dame sans Merci.

O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering,
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.....

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery`s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light
And her eyes were wild....

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean and sing
A faery`s song....
John Keats.

The Rich Mrs Robinson.

Monday, washing day, was unfavourable also, with steam from the copper, draughts from the back garden where the clothes were hung, the smell of wet wool, and the all-prevading dampness. And our Mother, a little dishevelled for once, and red in the face, hurriedly serving boiled rice with pallid, crinkled, washerwoman`s hands.
Winifred Beechey.

As I walked out one Midsummer Morning.

There were purple evenings; juicy as grapes, the thin moon cutting a cloud like a knife; and dawns of quick sudden thunder.
Laurie Lee.

The forget me not blue of the sky and the lavender and damson etching of the bare woods sharpened as the sun went down.

Afterwards I sat sewing. The cottage was so quiet that I realized how it must be when I`m not in it. The clock ticked in the back kitchen, the fire settled, the sun shone through the windows.
Magriad Evans.

from November Night.

Listen....
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees
And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey.

Re'sume'.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp;
Guns arent lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Dorothy Parker.

There was a cold air like the wind from cherubs cheeks in the old maps, we shuddered off into the dusk, towards the beaded loops of soft yellow lights where the town straggled up its long hill to the church towers at the top.

Dust.

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the worlds delight,
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night....
Rupert Brooke.

This southern slice of Tuscany, with its veins of vineyards, softly rolling hills, olive groves and medieval hill towns unchanged since the Renaissance.

Fade to Black.

Life it seems will fade away,
Drifting further everyday,
Getting lost within myself,
Nothing matters, no one else,
I have lost the will to live,
Simply nothing more to give,
There is nothing more for me,
Need the end to set me free.
Metallica.

Southern Sunrise.

Colour of lemon, mango, peach
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies,
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower
pen sketch.

Bullet-Proof Poet.

He loved the most beautiful girl in the mist of wine,
A last kiss through his cigarette smoke, and she quietly
slipped off the edge of time.
Dogs D`Amour.

Romantic Suicide.

I have been half in love with easeful death.
John Keats.

Love Walked in.

Just about that moment, the timing was so right,
You appeared like a vision, sent down to my life,
I thought I was dreaming when I saw you that night,
Thats when love walked in through my door....
Thunder.

She is Far.

She is far from the land where her
young hero sleeps,
And lovers are around her sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze,
and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
Thomas Moore.

The Lamp and the Lute.

Wraiths that the scented breath of summer raises,
Ghosts of dead hours and flowers that once were fair,
Sorrel of nodding grass and white moon-daises,
Glimmer and fade upon the fragrant air.
Rosamund M. Watson.

Eternity approaches, swiftly marching on,
As life`s last breath deserts me I smile, and I am gone.

Hope Chest.

It is shaped
like a dunce cap
It is a bottle of perfume
at the foot of a cross.
It is a photograph
that hums.
It is early
It is day
It is a bed
no one has ever slept in.
It is just a dream.
It is a rosary of lentils.
It is the part you always forget.
It is a woman with an infinite number
of pages.
It is strictly off limits
except when it isnt
that being the hour when you
finally arrive
completely unexpected and gorgeous
as usual.
Elaine Equi.

Somewhere a dog barks, a soft gituar thrums. A shady bedroom with portugeuse tiles and drifting guaze draperies offers quiet sanctuary from the shimmering heat.

The old cowsheds were deserted, the corrugated roofs rusted red like dried blood and half hidden by elders which hung their musk scented lacey blossoms over the crumbled ruins.

The sky away over the city was yellow through grey, like old rubbed Sheffield plate, but the High street was bright with oranges and lemons.

Wisbech.

The river flowed thick and brown like melted chocolate through the ancient little town, its Georgian houses square and dignified, hung with purple wisteria and mats of dancing ivy.

I cant stay long.

London has a spirit too, it has beauty, moods, shades, atmospheres: lingering sharp blue November afternoons, heavy rose-pink Summer evenings, jaunty Spring mornings, and star-bright Winter nights.
Laurie Lee.

In a Country Church.

To one kneeling down no word came,
Only the wind`s song, saddening the lip`s
Of the grave saints, rigid in glass;
Or the dry whisper of unseen wings,
Bats not Angels, in the high roof.
R.S.Thomas.

To the Spider in the crevice behind the toilet door.

I have left you four flies
three are in the freezer next to the joint of beef
the other is wrapped in christmas paper
tied with a pink ribbon
beside the ironing table in the hall
should you need to contact me
in an emergency
the numbers in the book
by the telephone.

P.S. I love you.

Janet Sutherland.

Spring brought a flush of green wheat and there were violets under the hedges and pussy willows out beside the brook at the bottom of the `Hundred Acres`; but only for a few weeks in later Summer had the landscape real beauty. Then the ripened cornfields rippled up the doorsteps of the cottages and the hamlet became an island in a sea of dark gold.

from Letter from a far Country.

...Our milky tendernesses dry
to crisp lists: immaculate
linen; jars labelled and glossy
with our perfect preserves.
Spiced oranges; green tomato
chutney; seville orange marmalade
annually staining gold
the snows of January.

Jams and jellies of blackberry,
crabapple, strawberry, plum,
greengage and loganberry.
You can see the fruit pressing
their little faces against the glass;
tiny onions imprisioned
in their preservative juices.

Familiar days are stoned whole
in bottles. Theres a wet morning
orchard in the dandelion wine;
a while spring distilled
in elderflowers clarity;
and a loving late, sunburning
day of October in syrups
of rose hip and the beautiful
black sloes that stained the gin to rose.
Gillian Clarke.

The delicious, frail pink convolvulus resented being picked and would furl its umbrella and twirl its skirt round its knees in disgust if taken indoors.

Cuckoos.

When coltsfoot withers and begins to wear
Long silver locks instead of golden hair,
And fat red catkins from black poplars fall
And on the ground like caterpillars crawl,
And bracken lifts up slender arms and wrists
And stretches them, unfolding sleepy fists,
The Cuckoos in a few well-chosen words
Tell they give Easter eggs to the small birds.
Andrew Young.

Autumn on the Broads.

Autumn is in the air again
with colours of purple hue,
And cobwebs on the grass and fern,
are swabbed with morning mist and dew.
And our broadlands windswept
land, with distance far and wide
The cattle laze and graze,
all day, with nowhere much to hide.

There`s moorhens in the dykes
again, they hide amongst the reeds,
The pheasant browse on edgeways
paths, gathering hidden seeds
The seagulls screech, on Autumn
winds, there`s lapwings overhead,
And as the sun goes down, the
Starlings meet, before they go to bed.

The willows sway by waters edge,
and swallowed Alder`s creak,
And by the sedges on the marsh,
A home the dormouse seek,
Then over by the sunken mill, that
used to pump all day,
There is remains of swallows homes
but they have flown away.

The water rises with the tide, and
glitters in the sun.
And ripple past the old pack bridge
On Potter Heigham run.
Then past the ambered woodlands
Where herons watch all day.
The swans and ducks search along
the bank, as summer fades away.

The willow herbs have had their fun
they`re tamed by Autumn chill.
They`ve lost their colour of crimson
pink, the seeds they blow at will.
The catkins dust is blowing
amongst the tree tops high,
And most boats have left the
river now.
Looks like Summer say goodbye.

So Autumn gales go searing on
broadland, marsh and fen.
That sweep across the open land
to bend the trees again.
And through the wires the
whistling wind, is singing
Autumns song.
So say goodbye to Autumn
leaves.
Then Winter won`t be long.
R. Roberts.