My Sea Nymph

‘My Nereid’ … Pen – WHB – 2017
 

My SEA NYMPH

you

my nereid

emerging 

from the

burgeoning

vibrant waves 

that break

on that

far shore

of that 

distant sea

only to

dissolve

into ripples 

as I rush

to greet you

plunging 

into the breakers

as you

fade

into the foam

quiescent now

along with 

my dream

Distant Waves … Pen – WHB – 2017

SONG – My First Romance

Is there a hope that I can hold,
A hope that I can to me fold
You in my arms,
Die by your charms?

Is there a word that I can say,
A word that will in part repay
You for your trust?
Hold you I must.

Is there in this a single tie,
A knot, a bond, a little lie
To bind, to fix,
Buttress the mix?

Is there a part that I can play?
Can I be certain from today?
Give me the chance –
My first romance.

Once Upon Another Time

silhouette photo of man and woman

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com

Once Upon Another Time

 

Once upon another time
There lived a girl whose heart was mine.

For I loved her and she loved me,
Together we would always be.

But times have changed and so have we,
Allowing us new paths to see.

Those promises which once we kept
Have faded as we overslept.

And passing time and growing distance
Have slowly dulled, then killed, resistance.

Allowing other doors to open,
Other pledges to be spoken.

Until, as now, the past forgotten,
We venture on new paths untrodden.

To face a future, yet unknown,
Both of us left still alone.

 

love couple sunset sunrise

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

Longing

Lake Distriict-Borrowdale-1986

Borrowdale – Pen Sketch WHB – 1986  © 

LONGING

Yes, my youth brought many vital moments
among my native hills.
Such interludes return now
in flashback and in dreams
in vignettes and in echoes;
instances of acute sensitivity,
memories more precious and persistent
as year passes into year.

I wish I had been more alive then,
more interwoven with my surroundings,
instinctively attached to the skies above
and to the rolling landscape below.

For there, on the vast wide-open moorland
where, above my breathing,
what I heard, was only the sound of the bees
visiting the sun-yellow gorse,
and the sighing rustle of the breeze
playing amongst the curls of bracken,
the blackbirds circling above in the sundown dusk,
calls of the curlew, lapwing and meadow pipit
lost in broom , hidden in heather.

Sometimes, in the bliss of solitude’s memory,
I have known a disregard for time itself,
and I sense I would happily reach eternal slumber
in the rapturous throes of such longing.

 

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