Sea Spray Song


 I heard her o’er ocean
 She called from o’er sea
 Her voice like liquid sunset
 The sound it did haunt me
 
 It carried in the sea spray
 Alighting on my lips
 That wanton taste of saline
 As sweat from olive hips
 
 A mesmerising choral
 Crescendo in the surf
 I’ll always love that angel
 For all that I am worth
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sleeping with the Dead



 Only the hollowest heart could look upon such a sight without tears. There, nestled beneath a copse of trees, part of the forest, yet not, rested a tombstone. The white marble of its construction ran with rivulets of silver in the streaming light of a waxing moon. That memory to some unknown soul looked ancient: cracked, depressed into the earth, lonely, but still carrying a degree of dignity in the winter’s night, it stood apart from the landscape.
 Of course, I was intrigued. Who wouldn’t have been? Although only passing through that darkest of forests, I found it hard to accept somebody would bury their kin so far from community. I myself felt as though I’d surfed the place for eternity trying to find my way out, when, in truth, it was more likely hours, than days. I did not see how it would differ for another.
 I approached the slab with caution, the trees seeming to lean to me, reach for me. The hooting of an owl caused further alarm, but I was of a determined nature. Stubborn, some might have said. My mother once commented that I should probably never die from sheer sense of will. If only such things were possible.
 The grave was overgrown with weed and wooded debris. As I had suspected, it was old, very old. Any inscription had long since worn away buffeted by the harsh elements. ‘Poor soul’ I thought. To be unremembered, could there be anything worse.
 As a mark of respect, I picked a spray of some delicate, white flowers gleaming in the moonlight and placed them on the ground. I hoped the occupant would appreciate the gesture; I know I should.
 I left then, paced away at speed in an effort to be rid of the arboreal and returned to society with all haste. But, as you may have guessed, it was not so simple. No matter how long I walked, and in whatever direction, I somehow found myself always returned to that tombstone in the trees. In the end, resigned to my plight, I made my bed there, and soon fell asleep. The place was strangely comforting. It almost felt like home.
 
 Be careful, forewarned if you will, should you stumble upon that most secret grave. Being around the dead can play such tricks on the living. I know. For I sleep there still.
 
 
 
 

Ah, Sunday!

Sunday stands apart.
 A day to rest and dream,
 Place for thought and reflection:
 Clouds drift in languorous ease
 The wind wafting them farewell;
 Flowers bow petaled heads
 In reverance to a sleepy sun,
 And even the starlings chatter quietly;
 The usual hurly burly subsides,
 Aggregations put on hold
 And all
 And everyone
 Breathes deep.
 Ah, Sunday!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Demon Bride

Cooling in the corners of another shaded dream
 
 There lurked a girl a-twinkling, her smile a silver gleam
 
 I asked her why she hid all of that happiness away
 
 She answered, she was lonely, no one else with her would play
 
 My heart it went out to her, so I stepped into her shade
 
 As though into a nightmare, my bed it then was made
 
 For on her face that smile, which at first had drawn me in
 
 Contorted into evil, a wicked thing of sin
 
 From then my life was over by her side I did abide
 
 That awful child of bad dreams, yes she, my demon bride