no picnic

that cloud

on the edge of the cliff

from the coastal path
like the head of the patriarch

only a flimsy thing
that soon blows over

leaving clear day
and little else of meaning

on the headland
where we leave eggshells
for the birds

and scatter

I meant to show you something special

headland 1

there will be time for reading books
and time for sitting on the grass
time for looking at the shadow cast
by the house
we lived in as children

there will be time to pick up pebbles
by the sea
and if that is not enough
for you and me
time to wander further out than that
over to the headland
where there are flecks of light flickering
and people gathering on the beach
to look at the fallen man

but now time is upon us
and things must be made ready

Black Roses

A garden of black roses,
a busted cross – dark eglantine.
A ruined plaster saint around whose hip
an ancient vine entwines.
Black roses for the bedside,
black roses for the bed,
stone fruit upon the table,
stone clouds up overhead.
The cottage on the cliff
that you once stayed in as a child
has fallen into disrepair,
the garden let run wild.
Stone flowers for your garland,
dead laurel for your head,
black roses for the bedside,
black roses.

[first posted 26 November 2014]