Evening wind whispers in field.
Moon flower dreaming.
A poet composing a Limerick
Said finding a rhyme gave him quite a kick.
He rhymed Clever with Ever
And Weather with Whether
And found that he'd written a Cork(Er)
A poet who always wrote limericks
Was known as a terrible cleverdick.
They said that her verse
Was sarcastic and terse
Or silly and smart-arsed - you take your pick!
Said a poet composing a limerick
'I'll share an ice cream with my love and give him a lick'
She wrote down her rhyme
And he said 'about time,
And I'd appreciate it if we could take in a flick.'
(For Donall) Inside, Outside
Sometimes I'm old on the outside
and young on the inside.
Sometimes I'm young on the outside
and old on the inside.
Sometimes I'm young
but on the old side
Sometimes I'm old
but on the young side
Sometimes I'm on the outside
Sometimes I'm on the inside
Always I'm young when you're
(Poems from Haunted Houses) Moonlight in Ardival
The tiger does not sleep tonight
it hangs in the moonlight
like a curse on the stairs
the cobras unwind
from the labours of their day
supporting the ornate spittoons
the herons and the falcons
wink their glass eyes -
“I see no ships” -
the turkey carpet stretches
[...] Read more
(Growing Pains) 12. Tennis in Bournemouth
Eyed by pigeons and the tall windows
of elegant cream mansions
she and he enter the court.
Father and daughter, mentor and child,
Left outside, I contribute
the only way I know.
From a damp bench, peering through
the barrier of wire,
I draw them.
Years later, I see that I have drawn
the netting round the court
like a prisoner viewing
the exercise yard.
(For Dónall) Arrival
under the Arrivals board
in your flying black mac
(or magician's gown...
it's an academic distinction...)
your silver coils of curls
flowing from your worried frown.
And when the train at last
rocks and rolls me up to Platform Ten,
I'm running then, and running fast,
upstream of tired faces in grey suits
and I'm colliding with your warmth,
meeting your soft mouth
with my own eager kiss
and knowing that all day
we both have longed for this.
(For Dónall) Parting
We kiss, we kiss,
in the heart of London,
underneath Piccadilly Circus.
Doubly far above us,
Cupid poses, silly boy,
his arrow quite irrelevant
to the love we share.
We kiss, we kiss,
under Piccadilly there.
Gentle, longing kisses
without pain, for we’re aware
while trains will carry us our separate ways,
through tiled ratrun tunnels,
our minds and bodies never do forget
or lose the loving memories of touch
that we have planted each on each,
until this parting’s in our past.
(Poems from Haunted Houses) The Go-Between
Under the stern gaze of the summer moon
my big sister, Juliet to Romeo,
Cathy to her Heathcliff,
slid each night on the porch's sloping roof
down to Lovers' heaven
below our bedroom window.
Little sister hugged the secret
into her midnight pillow,
waited for the tap of stones on glass
then flitted like a ghost to unlock doors
and let big sister in
from her illicit play.
Now that romance has flowered,
yielded fruit and withered all away,
I wonder, does a ghostly
tapping on the glass
disturb the dreams of sleepers in that room
whenever moonlight silvers trees and grass.