Round and round the dresses swirling
Arms now waving, as the scene mind
fed only begins to fulfil a dream
Tchaikovski planted there.
The Waltz of the flowers,
The music rises in happy expectation
The crescendo loudly crashes,
The dance is over.
The ballroom clears,
I am back in my living room.
The swirling dervish.
From remembered experience of playing Tchaikovski at My London Road Flat
Grief at Christmas
Grief comes at Christmas as at any other time
But at Christmas grief is more poignant,
And can cast a spell of gloom
While some happy round the tree, feasting,
And enjoying the moment
Others have no room,
For happiness has fled out the window
The parcels wrapped in red
Are lying where Santa Claus left them
And the cards are left unread.
For people who lost folk at Christmas?
Time drags and heavily hangs.
Oh why did they die at Christmas?
It’s so hard to understand
To My Teacher
To my teacher who’s noble worth I do escrue,
Such honour worthy men bestow,
To learning, and desire for truth.
To noble thought, and knowledge to impart,
The secrets of the writer’s art.
Hard learning and experience show,
Much oft how well such men are made,
For though we think ‘tis easy at the start,
Learning of a lifetime little seems
When our sweet poems come apart
And so unravel at the seams.
And when our tales some deficits do show,
How kindly does our teacher tell us so.
And so good class of earnest souls,
That winkle out good knowledge from its case
Our kindly mentor now we thank
Who understands so well our place
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