Oxford Road

Students skipping as buses splash through puddles,
Showering shelters either side of the road.
Beyond, on one side, a grotesque building goads,
Faux-Roman blocks of rectangular muddle.
From September to May the thousands huddle,
Zipped up from that fine rain which soaks through clothes.
At ten to each hour, teeming as they roam,
Pavements prop up the hangover's struggle.
I was one of these, but not one of these.
These many a sheep, who without a shepherd
So often fail to see wood through gnarled bark.
This timber I chopped through with consummate ease.
   A breeze, this lifestyle, not one to defer,
     With brains and mild effort, surely a lark.
    

Autumn in Lancashire

Riding and winding around bendy lanes,
Scattering pheasants and other feathered game.
Turning and churning and spluttering fumes,
Aloft Bowland's Trough, dew-soaked in the rain.
The soft sun shines through but battles in vain,
As Lancashire's autumn drums a dreich tune.
Splattering moorhens and rattling the loons,
While Canada's geese stumble ski-jumper's gait.
'Gainst battering wind the sodden cows brace,
Heathered hills, harsh, and bleak for the cattle.
The sheep, though woolen, still solemnly bleat,
Longing for comfort, a warm hearthy place.
  But I, gladly, smell sweet cinnamon apple,
    While warm on the sofa, wrapped up, life's a treat.

Tranquil is autumn

Tranquil is autumn.

Leaves littering dampened streets,

Crunching under feet.

Crispy shells of former selves,

Ready to spring into trees.

The bottle of Lambrini

A bottle of lambrini sits on a wall,
Four months that bottle hasn't moved at all.
But in those months, unlike the bottle,
I've been on a journey, finding my throttle.

There once was a time when woods were trees,
I coasted along as driftwood by the breeze.
But now, I feel, I have reached the shore,
Like the bottle, assured, on that sturdy wall.

What lies ahead?

So often, not always, but mostly elated,
Not often, and sometimes, but rarely deflated.
All I can do is the best I can do,
And hope that's enough to see me through.

The leaves are turning, soon to be still,
The skies look dark above the window-sill.
The transition to winter, foreboding with chill,
The trees soon silent after migration cools the trill.

Pensively I stare, ahead into the looking glass.
I cannot help but wonder what lies beyond the last.
Alas, not blessed, with a crystal ball,
But lately, at least, a life of sweet enthrall.

In Geneva

White-tipped mountains descend into icy lake,
 Biting breeze nips crisply onto my bare skin.
Ears gently caressed by lapping waves within,
 No chatter but for gulls riding water's break.
By the banks, wrapped up against the bitter cold,
 Promenading, sharing warmth, hand in hand,
As winter sun glistens on Rousseau's Romand,
 Basking in frosted happiness, young and old.
Alas, I was not one of those wand'ring pairs.
 Instead, I gazed alone, with longing eyes.
Solace grows weary with each passing night,
 A feeling which crept over as I stared.
   Travel on one's own has its virtues, for sure,
     But straddling in tandem would liven that shore.

Pendle Hill

Past Pendleton, up, through mist and rain,
 To Sabden by a foggy lane,
A sleeping elephant, green and pleasant,
 Rises, majestic, from the valley plane.

By Clitheroe that hill bewitched,
 Astride the long, grey bypass pitch,
Calmly waits for travellers gait,
 Unchanged through centuries that glorious niche.

On a fine Spring day from Kemple End,
 Serene is the view that hill subtends.
Within that stretch of dewy splendour,
 A sight to behold, sore eyes to lend.

Unchanged while time has left its mark,
 By the swaying trees and twittering lark,
The Ribble ripples, swerves and trickles,
 Through a land that dwells within my heart.

If you were the ocean

If you were a bush,
I'd be a bee.
 I'd buzz all day
From flower to flower
And clutch to them quite happily.

If you were a tree,
I'd be a blackbird.
 I'd nest, warmly,
From crest to tail,
And in your boughs I would sleep.

If you were a rock,
I'd be a lichen.
 I'd hold you close when times get rough,
Though centuries may pass,
And grow on you with every mist, and fog.

If you were the ocean,
I'd be a driftwood.
 I'd buffer the tide,
Though storms may blow,
And always by your side.

If you were the sky,
I'd be an eagle.
 I'd ride the thermals,
Beneath the sun,
And soar for miles with pride.

You are not the sky,
You are not the ocean,
Nor bush, nor rock, or tree.
 You are all of these, from twig to wing,
You mean the world to me.