Like the waves of a troubled ocean,
waves of love tumble over
the shore of her tempest-tossed heart.
The moonlight showers her lithe form
with dots of pure translucent light.
She sways to the gathering rhythms
of an ebbing gleam as she gets lost
in the dream of what he is to be.

So soft the flickering gems
that skirt their way
atop the polished gloss
of her enchanted sea.
He swerves in just touching
her awakening mouth of pearl
that beckons to be kissed
from its bed of opalescent swirl.

She is an ancient siren
who cries out from the eons
to a lost and wayward youth.
He answers her yearning call
delving deep into the depths,
plumbing the miles of her soul.
She is ever the enchantress
in a dress of shimmering gold.

He paints a portrait of passion
each night after the Sun has set
as her sea is bathed in his Moon embers.

The Little Boy

Out of a grave dark street
On a stiff and sterile morn
Walked a stringless marionette
With a ghastly ashen form.

I clasped my greatcoat close
For a ripping wind thrashed by
And pencil-thin limbs shuffled
Past a man who couldn’t cry.

Against the wrath of winter
Crying havoc round the lake
He wore defiant rags like banners
Wildly flapping in his wake.

‘l hope he soon finds shelter’-
Thought I wrapped up so warm
‘gainst the whirling swirling leaves
And a frenzied snowflake swarm.

His face then turned towards me
With lifeless stone grey eyes,
That seemed to have full  knowledge
Of  my  self-supporting lies.

So I pursued him boldly
As he scurried on his way
And threw my coat around him-
A shield  to storm’s affray.

Alas! I stumbled forward
And fell into the snow
For the stunted waif I followed
Had gone where I could never go.

After the word storm.

So, what of me, so who cares?
It went wrong, we wouldn't talk,
self defence sowed hate in eyes
that saw lies expressed by a honest face;
disgrace in words given truthfully.
Quiet now. Hurt alone.

If, perhaps, I had kept my counsel,
been silent when injustice ran amok,
Not allowed the angry waves of spite
licence to uproot the bright flowers of peace;
love may yet have kept her throne.
Silence does not atone.

Tomorrow will be cold, colourless,
each persistent heartbeat, redundant.
What is life if it is not shared?
We all should be paired with another-
all able to approach an end and know
that someone once cared.