HEATHCLIFF

Your face lights up the small frame by my bed,

And your dark eyes talk to my heart and mind;
Yet I will not allow you speak the truth:
You look up at me from another time.

I'd claw grave ground to reach out for your hand -
A fool for times we traded youthful lust -
Even though you forgot my childish pleas
Decades before your blood mingled with dust.

WET

Every wet day I watch the wild sea churn

As it drinks up the drops of each downpour

And hurls them hard across the shingly shore,

As if to warn them never to return.

On those black days the charcoal sky can stoop

To hide high birds and touch the tallest trees.

The wind puffs out patches of pale blue tease

And clouds explode like bombs in guided swoop.

Branches drip cold and feed voracious shrubs

And grass grows gold and green in flower beds;

While soaked petals droop and descend in shreds

From stunted sterile stems and stalks like stubs.

But it’s the chill, severe in sodden air,

That makes me wish for springtime’s garish glare.

IMAGINARY IMAGE

I have this imaginary image

Cropped from cryptic conversations

And laboured explanations

That provide a feast for me

Whenever we task ourselves to talk.

This image draws on your pictures,

For your photographs are glorious.

They disclose both goddess and woman,

And they bid me implore and plead,

That icon and image might come to life.

So like a soldier brawling in battle

I'll fight for my objective -

When your image is not imaginary,

And your pictures seem petty.

We’ll stand face to face and laugh,

And regret our reluctance no more.

DRIFTWOOD

Why is it that whomever you want most

Always retreats to a distant shoreline?

Just when you have swum to her comely coast

You find only coarse sand and bitter brine.

There seems no reason to pursue her troth

For she has choices way beyond your reach.

So why risk oaths that might just win her wrath?

Become instead mere driftwood on her beach.

At least you’ve played a truly candid part

And risked all to inspire the lady’s lust.

But never was there time you had her heart,

Never did she honour your honest trust.

So turn away and wander while you might -

Beware bewitching eyes and allure’s light.

AND NO BIRDS SING

When untruths burn so deep and hot

And scalds blister your broken heart,

It’s hard to salve your soul with hope -

Blame and shame will start.

All you can see is spoiled and foul,

The air you breathe has no real life.

The path you walk is cracked and frail -

Split by flaws and strife.

Rancid bouquets replace flowers

That you barge past in search of spring.

Grotesque creatures stalk every step,

And no birds sing.

Blue sky is scarred by scattered clouds

That spit cold rain if they’re provoked.

Flickering rays of feeble sun

Puff and then are choked.

People are all potential foes -

Their mouths marred by bizarre falsehood.

There can be none who tell the truth,

None who can do good.

The best retort must be withdrawal -

Banish brute beasts from being’s blurs,

Contrive helpers in obscene dreams,

Yet ignore their slurs.

* The title is from John Keats’ ballad, ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’.