wild roses

wild roses grew on the border
but pretty soon after died
I moved into the Albany
and sat up every night
there is a window on the soul
if we have a soul at all
there is a phone here by the bed
but I never make a call
there is a wind and there is a wood
and there is a darkening way
there is a phone here by the bed
but I wouldn’t know what to say
from a room here at the Albany
and a window on the soul
I love a quiet garden
where wild roses grow
no one has an answer
no one has a key
wild roses on the border
no longer bloom for me

twilight on Ashridge

twilight on Ashridge
and I am forgetting everything
to reflect upon
the thick mixture of mud
and deer droppings
I have just stepped in

who I was
what I’ve left undone
my way back through these woods
so rich in beech and oak
where I come to walk the dog
and have my quiet smoke

looking back
I remember feeling
much the same in youth
hemmed in by thought and mood
imprisoned and yet lost
I turn to find I am watched
thin velvety antlers
not long from the pedicle
barely discernible
amongst the twiggery
of this ancient world
that in a few short weeks
will change into something
thin and brittle as
a pensioner
with a purse full of coppers
that at last opens
then won’t close

well
we all find closure eventually
ready or not

now
one snap from me and he is off
prancing free
back to the herd
where he belongs
and where
if truth be told
I have always been at odds