A PASTURE GREEN
A cow with nut brown eyes
Stood in a pasture green
And twitched her tail
To ward off flies
As a calf sucked
Her udders clean
Children with faces gleaming
Bright peering from cars
Beamed warmly in delight
At a cow and a calf
And mother at home prepared
Lunch in hot and steamy
Kitchen clean was the floor
Damp was the walls as
The clock in the hall struck noon.
Mother served carrot and greens
Some had fat others lean
Traditional beef from the farm!
Deep Melancholy Darkness
Words, words will not come
Is this not the hour
For rhyme and reason?
Yet within my bones
I feel the power
To write of lovers,
Life and season.
For clarity of mind I strive.
Come Moon, come and inspire
For deep darkness of mind
Is a melancholy plight.
Strange Moon, shine out
from those clouds of grey.
Pray let good light enter
Even a twinkle let appear
For to write I would.
Your light has gone
Loss chills my bones.
Riding on a galaxy sleigh
To some far off planet
To other creatures hamlets
That they may write
A loving verse
While here on earth
mine are terse..
© 1979 MRL
A million silk parachutes
carpet the earth;
In splendid isolation,
each a portrait
“The Beauty of fragmentation”
Watchful eyes are upon the trees
whose owners pray that no late frost will harm,
The tiny garlands that feed the Bees
to make them grow blossom forth without alarm.
Then pray again for gentle rain and sun
to make the fruit, full, ripe well spun.
When Nature's work has all but ended,
Collectors, pickers gather together
all ages, children,women, men none offended
To bag a princely harvest from the ground
crammed, bulging sacks plastic or hessian
Stand under trees, grouped, well stacked.
The hay shed in late October cool
men work the press and some drool.
As ripe fruit awaits the crusher to be wed
between sheets of bright new reed.
Lo' tis then the wasps arrive to feed
Bathe in juice to die a drunkards death.
From pressed sour fruit, gushes auburn oil
such a sweet, ardent mother's milk.
Supplied by Nature and men's toil
siphoned into barrels, to cradle and bear
Till maturity, Somerset's good cider
for the coming year.
From sleep in a Field
I reach at dawn fingers stretched
Caress an everlasting wild flower
Slumbering in a dew filled meadow
Beneath early mist, silky feminine
With the fragrance of Musk
and do with hands a tremble,
harvest hold to carry gently home.
A prize as if a Pearl
to a place of safety.
Where my heart eyes dance
on a bloom of brilliant beauty
blossoming throughout all seasons
and is a perfect Rose!
©MRL 13. 12. 94
Fate my friends, is not the Devil’s eye
Nor a saints judgement set in wisdom
A great spinner has warped the weave
For life to live forever in the weft
None, how ever much has tried
Can snag the loom woven cloth
We are turns on the spool
Interlaced and crossed about
Intermittent, though time stood still
We the mechanical clock inventors - amid
A universe to be, and was and is still
Of past, present, future multi-layered time
Cry and shout atheist, agnostic or cult believer
But were not you, who now am I and was woven
Beyond the stars in mystic single imagery
Equipped and clothed with potent loins
To propagate the earthly fruit.
Claim science aye’ but deny not
the Weaving Creatorix !
© MRL 1982
In a shop full of words
silent and unspoken
Titled books peer from shelves
on whispering august readers
A woman, child size
stares at endless covers
She with upturned hands
gesticulates a nervous dream
Her rigid thoughts outreached
the type set print
In silent sighs of pain
Dark rimmed encased eyes
betrayed her anguished breast
A tender wounded thing.
He words when spoken
were quiet and direct
Friend is there a book
that will teach me to relax?
And now I read today
in bold type
“Anne -Eliza aged forty
wife of John, mother of four
Died relaxed in January”