She comes to me at dead of night, when I am close-wrapped in my dreams;
I see her face, I hear her name; and that is all; but yet, it seems
that I have waited all my life, for someone; could it really be
perhaps, that she is so much more than just some dream that comes to me?
Does she actually exist? this glorious creature of the night?
She comes to me with gentle, loving words that fill me with delight.
Or, is she just some sweet, ephemeral thought? perhaps a memory?
Some book once read, some film once watched;
some half-remembered symphony

of unrequited love;
perhaps, a chance encounter? Fleeting glance?
Ships that passed by in the night? Some hope of love? Star-crossed romance?
All long forgotten; lost, down through the drifting mists of passing years;
some memory remaining, nourished by such long-forgotten tears?
If so; how can I then, explain this dream? This one bright truth, that shines;
remembering the taste of her soft lips, more sweet than summer wine.
Remembering the glory of a love burned deep into my soul;
remembering, she folded me in wings of love and made me whole.

Perhaps, we were together in some other place, some other time;
perhaps, not knowing of such things; this time around, I missed the signs.
Perhaps, as yet, we have not met; but, I feel that she is there.
Perhaps, if love is kind, we may yet meet
some time, somehow, somewhere.
Oh, sad, deluded fool; I hear you say; I would not disagree
with that,
but then, I find it strange, that she should come so frequently
into my dreams; and if, she never was, or shall be; it's alright;
I know that she will come again, softly in the dead of night.

If there is but, one tiny grain of truth; some possibility
that the life force does return; ever circling endlessly
in time and space
if, this time, we chance not to meet; then I intend
that, should it take a hundred lifetimes, I shall find her in the end.
For she gives me a feeling, I have never felt, have never known;
I've lived without it, all my life; yet, softly... quietly, has grown
this instinct that she is out there;
where do I look? where do I start?
Perhaps, within the deepest, and most secret reaches of my heart.

Don't look at me.
Enveloped in your steady gaze, drowning, drowning in your eyes
whilst willpower flees as swift as sand slips through the fingers of the hand;
crumbling scruples ebb and wane, exquisite trap; sprung once again...

Don't smile at me.
I cannot tolerate your warmth; to sense, to feel... your thoughts to touch.
All instinct tells me I am lost; one soft half-smile... and all is dust.
I cling to morals; play the rules, if I succeed I surely lose...

How I could have loved you.

Don't talk to me.
During conversations shared, is there some message in your eyes?
I search for some unspoken word, perhaps imagined... never heard.
What would you say if I reveal the hidden thoughts my heart conceals?...

How I could have loved you.

Don't touch me.
l can withstand your word and gaze if I am brave; if I am strong.
But, your caress burns deep within, I long to touch your velvet skin,
soft, warm and rounded... sweet delight to taste your lips; to hold you tight...

How I could have loved you.

Don't ignore me.
The glance, smile, word; and touch denied may break my heart... but not my soul.
But, disregard has no respite... the chill caress I cannot fight.
Without you, words no longer rhyme, confused and pointless; lost in time...

How I could have loved you.

The place that I live in the heart of the Shires; they call it God's country; this County of mine.
With rolling green pastures, and wind-swept high Wolds all scattered with sheep, and forgotten by time.
A child could not wish for a happier place to play, and to grow... to learn about living;
to romp in the wheatfields on bright summer days, and, rather than take... find more pleasure in giving.

This is how I was taught in those innocent days where all were accepted... and none preconceived;
but, then I grew up and those values were crushed; but, I still hold to the truths I believed.
Why are there more words used for hatred, and envy, than ever there are used for tolerance, and joy?
Don't reach for the Prozac... just walk through my memories... experience that, which I had as a boy.

My Grandfather taught me that we are all equal...  in birth, life, and death we are all just the same.
"Shrouds have no pockets"... he said, as I listened, "It's all down to you... and how you play the game.
And what you will do with the time you are given is how they'll remember you, boy... have no fears."
and, ******* his pipe; he said, "Always remember, to just leave them smiling... and not shedding tears."

Now and again, I return to those high Wolds, and wander through meadows where I used to play;
remembering words that my Grandfather taught me... remembering wheatfields on hot summer days.
I hope that I've followed the truths that he taught me... his countryman morals that never efface;
and, if by his words, you should find some contentment... perhaps, this world might be a much nicer place.

How quickly now, has summer passed; how soon then, do the seasons turn
and Autumn is all but upon us... see, the leaves begin to burn
all gold and amber in the ailing Sun; the days are drawing in;
the damp, and chilly nights beset with creeping mists will soon begin.
A spiteful Eastern wind comes snatching at the fragile Golden cloak
that Autumn dons to hide her gauntness... wilfully, it probes and pokes
about the treetops, stripping off her modesty from shivering bones...
her cloak blown spinning, rent and tattered;
on the wind... her plundered gold.

High above the treeline, crouching darkly under quickening skies,
all swept by whimpering, fractious wind, the hollow hills, all gorse-strewn lie
so silent now... once full of laughter, where we frolicked in the spring,
tumbling in the fresh, sweet grass... it really was the sweetest thing.
But, that was then; now all is silent, but, for one sharp, piercing cry...
gazing up, I watch a Kestrel, wheeling graceful in the sky,
to hover on the wind, before her stoop... in perfect symmetry;
you said it was your favourite creature last time you were here with me.

Gazing down across the valley slumbering in the evening mist;
wood smoke curling languid, fragrant; memories of when we kissed
the last time we were here; your lips so soft, your pretty eyes so bright;
perhaps, your memories linger too... wherever you may be, tonight.
Rooks, in ones and twos, drift over; mournful calls all echoing,
as they return to woodland night-roosts, whilst the velvet dusk creeps in.
The time has come to leave the hollow hills, once more... I do miss you;
I wonder, sometimes, for a moment... do you still think of me, too?

The Sun, no more than Golden shadows lengthening in the western sky;
I turn, and walk back through wind-pillaged, rustling leaves... how deep they lie.
The torn and scattered Golden cloak of Autumn; little now remains;
the winds of change drove us apart; perhaps, we may yet, meet again.
To walk the hollow hills together... break the silence, just once more
with frolicking and laughter, and with loving... as we did before;
to watch the Kestrels hover on the wind, smell wood smoke in the air;
perhaps, next year... when Autumn dons her golden cloak...
I'll meet you there.

You say my words are beautiful; Thank You, Milady,You are kind.
They are... but thoughts; and, in my thoughts, You are always somewhere, there.
But, no surprise; for, when I write them, You dance brightly, in my mind,
and thus, explains perhaps, why words I rhyme are ever, sweet, and fair.

Yet, words I craft, are, but pale shadow of sweet thoughts I hold for You.
Such pictures that my heart would paint, cannot be compassed round with rhyme.
Such words do not exist... save, deep within the Soul... it is quite true;
and thus, cannot be written here, and I needs-must fail... every time.

Yet, though pale shadow, they may be, they have sweet virtue; they speak true;
and thus, may stand, as Portrait of a Love soft whispered, from the heart;
that cannot not dim as drifting years unwind... my tiny gift to You,
a sweet-versed Immortality; to shine, long after we depart.

These Heart-thoughts, echoing down the years; someday, should they be read by chance,
will whisper... She was truly loved; indeed, this was a Grand Romance.

Tomorrow is another day; as yet, untouched, all fresh and new;
no footsteps in the mist, no whispered memory... no thoughts of you.
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to feel the shadows softly slip away;
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to walk out in the Sun...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; a bright new page in time, and space;
perhaps, tomorrow, I may not recall your smile... your voice... your face.
Perhaps, tomorrow, thoughts of what we might have been, will fade away;
Tomorrow, then, perhaps, to turn the page at last...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, its promise is the same
as yesterday
for you are ever there, and, always, you remain
somewhere in my thoughts... a tender, sweet, unfinished Symphony,
Perhaps, tomorrow, I can write the last few notes...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; for now, your memory lingers still,
and tip-toes softly through my heart... and, I suppose it always will;
The echo of a long-lost love; how strange, such memories still stray;
Tomorrow, perhaps, I might lay your Ghost to rest...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, I know what it will hold.
No bright, warm flame of love; but, in its place... the spent, grey ashes...
cold,
of what was once, so nearly "Us." How did it fade, and slip away?
Tomorrow, perhaps, you could please set free my heart...
but, not today.

On wintering nights of bitter frost when all the warmth of life is lost;
as spectral mist swirls in the air...
I think of you with the fragrant hair.

When wind is moaning in the pines and icy fingers touch the spine,
as strangled autumn slowly dies...
I think of you with the laughing eyes.

When darkened clouds, foreboding doom, fly swift, before a leprous moon;
as hoarfrost from the blackthorn drips...
I think of you with the soft, sweet lips.

When hail, its palsied fingers train and scrabble on the windowpane;
as gables whimper under tile...
I think of you with the gentle smile.

When, on such bleak and bitter nights, primeval fear lurks out of sight,
and frightened thoughts, dark tendrils trace...
I think of you with the radiant face.

No earth-bound force can misalign the shuttered refuge of my mind.
Encompassed in that secret place...
My soft, sweet thoughts of you.