In His Solitude
I wonder where he has gone,
the man who would sit
on this bench
every day
in his solitude.
For he was always alone.
He would stretch out his arms
across the back of the bench
so that he filled it
leaving no space
for anyone else.
So there were no conversations,
or even “good mornings”.
Perhaps he didn’t need them
but he looked so sad
as all passed by
his gloomy barrier.
And now
no one else sits there
and I wonder where he is.
If he’s still alone
still gloomy.
I sit there
pondering,
thinking about him
my arms outstretched.
He haunts me.
Looking Back
Endless
that’s how it seemed
a youth lasting forever
with shining teenage years
of love
of sunshine
of empty beaches
and love
our special love
which we knew
would last forever
even through grey adulthood
even through middle age
even though we knew
by then
that
love
only
lasts
for some.
And then soon we knew
it wouldn’t last for us
not forever.
Nothing lasts
forever.
Overcome
It left me broken
cut up
in bits
beyond repair
but only for a time.
I picked up the pieces
joined them together
made a new me
more colourful
differently
unique
better.
From The Beach
Nature is the best of artists,
able to render down to beauty
the decayed life forms of the past
into a form that can grace my walls and shelves
and remind me of the stories about where I found them,
where the waves washed them up.
Maybe they tell stories to each other.
I strain to hear them,
strain to hear
the trees from Loch Ellen
once blown by the wind
now rustling silently.
But I think the dragon fish can hear them.
He looks as if he’s speaking,
telling them all
about his journey
from a living tree
to driftwood on the shore
and now he’s here on my wall.
The bird soars above them.
Once he lay on the shore beside them
but now he’s heading upwards
searching for the tree he used to be.
And every shell on every beach
can tell a tale of it’s sea journey
and the creatures which called it home.
Time ran out for them
rendered them down to beauty.
The rest lie waiting
for the next wave to break.
And so it goes.
