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CHURCHILL AT REST

 

He sits at ease on his bronzed bench

Viewing proceedings with measured distaste.

Deep in thought, reminiscing of times past

When a Nation stood upon the brink of precipice.

 

Where valiant hearts fought to their last breath,

Hundreds of thousands of tremulous hearts silenced

That we might feel tonight’s early evening breeze cool

Gladdened cheeks whilst gazing at a vast indigo sky.

 

We cannot know whether it was worth such weighty sacrifice.

Oh, we think we do with our Poppy Day appeals

And our solemn mid-morning salute as we mourn.

But the cost cuts deepest with the noble few left behind.

 

And you know just by looking at those steely eyes,

He counts the cost every day as he sits contemplating

What may have come to pass but for vainglorious hearts.

He broods that grave equation along each furrowed brow

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Being Human (dedication to the loving memory of Jo Cox)

Our differences weigh less upon us than the strength of our common bonds

That such a simple truth has the purity of intent it resounds in the chambers of every heart:

I choose hope over despair

I choose;

I choose love over hate

I choose;

I choose to be calm not fearful

I choose;

I choose to laugh not cry

I choose;

I choose to do good not evil

I choose:

I choose unity not confrontation 

I choose;

I choose kindness over spite

I choose;

I choose gratitude over bitterness

I choose;

I choose being human not a demon

I choose;

I choose truth over lies

I choose;

I choose freedom not chains

I choose.
Jo Cox (1974 – 2016)

Moon

The moon with its great

One-eyed-insect glare

Bathes the garden tonight,

Even the moths seem to be

Hiding from her searchlight glow.

 

Perhaps they have all

Upped wings and beaten

Their way high up toward

This beacon, so low in the sky

On this late summer’s night?

 

Or do they all meet secretly,

Under the leaves and bushes,

Whispering quiet thoughts to each other?

Plotting ways to make contact

With this great eye-in-the-sky.

 

The moon waits patiently

For the sun to end its vigil

A view of Warlingham Hill

When June’s rising birdsong wakes from watchful sleep,

And hawthorn blossoms shimmer at dawn’s first gasp;

Warlingham Hill escapes cotton puff clouds,

Leaves serenity closer, just within grasp.

 

When blackbirds chorus their borrowed songs,

As sun rays dapple through elm tree leaves;

My thoughts turn thankful for life’s small wonders,

The gladdening magic these hills gently weave.

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A poem for you if you’ve ever lost in love or lost someone close: how we remember them

 

SOFT-PADDED FOOTPRINTS

Your laughter hides there, waiting patiently

At the far edges of your mouth,

Ready to possess every pore of your face

From the corners of your crows-feet eyes,

Sweeping gently down those familiar

Lemon-scented, quick, curled lips.

Like soft-padded footprints

Stretched across warm desert sand,

Your smile keeps me company

Long after you have left the room,

Leaving me anticipating your arrival

Emerald eyes pin me where I stand.

Wherever I walk, at all gatherings

Of family clans and meeting friends,

Your laughter walks always with me

Even though photos and memory are

My only evidence left behind

Of your ever being here at all.

 

When children dance

When children dance, the delight light shines,

Sparkles like fireworks crossing indigo skies,

Cascades as incandescent rays of sun,

Pure, Roman-candle joy Catherine-wheels of fun.

 

What raptures beam from wide-lidded eyes,

Warm-balm each heart-string like Morecambe and Wise,

Trickles treacle-toffee thoughts down memory lane,

How wonderful life is when care-free from blame.