The Climbing Toadflax

In red brick terrace yards, in spring, we sprawl,
Orbicular leaves form a vivid green swathe
Across the rain dampened concrete, we bathe,
Our roots are shallow, but steadfast to the walls.
In summer, we thrive, amid the suns rays,
We litter each inch with zygomorphic bloom,
While yardowners try to suppress us with broom,
But yet we pebbledash in purple the shade.
Retreat in the autumn does not spell us doom,
In winter we shrink but stay close in the cold,
No frost, no drought, nor wind can make us fold,
As we wait for the spring, and sweet summer's swoon.
    For what is mightier, than trees tall and old,
         If not the toadflax, which lines every road?

How the world should be

This is how the world should be
I walked into a shop, and the owner smiled at me.
And as I breached the boundary, she beamed,
The broadest smile, and in she drew me.

I stood, engaged, in a half hour discussion,
At first a bit shocked, a minor concussion.
It's rare in this world that someone stops to chat,
In inner city stores conversation truly lacks.

It took me aback, but stayed I did,
I listened to tales of when recession hit.
No work for a Masters in Plymouth, no more,
But learning to sew made her dreams, for sure.

She wore a tape-measure 'round her neck,
And joyfully weaved her tale in my head.
Her husband a doctor, no jobs on the roster,
So she opened a shop, and never has it cost her.

She's happy, she's glad, she'll never be sad,
She follows her passion and her passion flows back.
And how I admired the bags on the rack,
The dresses, the jewellery, and mostly, the chat.

The woes are beset

I paddle, I stretch, I rudder, I sweat,
As the raging torrents batter and tear.
My paddle, no more, than a twig for an oar,
All around me my woes are beset.

Plodding on

Grimacing against the splattering rain

No matter how hard you plod on,

It feels there's nothing left to gain

All soaked, cold, and downtrodden.

Onward, into wind, which slaps the face,

Chastening with bluster.

Stronger it seems, with each step and pace,

When strength is hard to muster.

But muster it does, and muster it will,

And masters all had to muster a skill.

Amidst the strain, it's foreboding and bleary,

But the end is in sight, and get there you will.

The winter road

Astride the weary, winter road
Forlorn with wind and rain,
Weathered from the thawing cold
And cracked in fissured veins.
The breeze blasts the blighted boughs
No littered leaves, long fallen.
The twisted trunk makes sighs and vows
To never yield, though swollen.
The rugged roots like robust troops
Spread far beneath the soil.
Sailing in a soggy soup,
The earthworms surface, the snails recoil.

For my uncle Graham, this Christmas

Those good old days, of Santa's sleigh,
Feel different now he's gone away.
His joyful songs I used to play,
Those tapes which made my childhood gay.

Off to the chapel, on Blueberry Hill,
A winter wedding in December chill.
In that wee kilt, I felt such thrill,
And sailed to lands of pleasure filled.

My mind was flown to sunny seas
And christmas spent in balmy breeze.
I stayed up late, like the locals please,
Snapping crackers 'neath coconut trees.

That sunny year brought me a bear,
I loved that teddy, but teddy would wear.
I held in comfort his fluffy hair,
'Til time did make my teddy bare.

I long for those sweet, blissful years
As now those thoughts bring me to tears.
Life goes on, with creeping fear,
And on again, but distantly near.

Almost at once, those tapes were flipped,
Yet still, each year, more songs were ripped.
I loved to get those gistening discs,
With memories yet to reminisce.

With passing seasons I grew so tall,
And in his music, still enthralled.
The singalongs and melodies of old,
Replaced by stories forever told.

Those songs have never felt so true,
Or near to me, as I think of you.
It's hard to recall the man I knew,
Impossible to fathom why his time was slewn.

I wonder if he knows, that now,
I follow in his footsteps proud.
Bequeathing music, rhyme, and sound,
And rousing reels to play aloud.

I miss my friend, who filled my past,
With thought, and song, and happiness.
But every year, I'll raise my glass,
To that dear man from Inverness.

The blossoming tree

From seed to cotyledon,
New shoots were abundant.
Though fleeting and blurry,
Those times weren't misspent.

Then as the leaves grew,
Some more to name but few,
From shrub to shrub, and bud to bud,
Those times were well spent, too.

Well spent were those lush, lower leaves,
But shed each year with bitter breeze.
And with each breeze, those leaves, those leaves,
Would vanish to never re-appear.

But with each autumn's solemn fall,
This plant grew strong, robust and tall.
These leaves he shed, but kept his head,
This tree stood sure among them all.

And as this tree did climb and climb,
Those buds sprang freely, time after time.
But with the breeze, those fickle leaves,
Were but a gust away from the vine.

As branches swayed, in wind and rain,
Harder, still, they were to tame,
But longer splayed were the ones that stayed,
And swayed, in wind and rain.

This tree, in pain, could never blossom,
The winters mild, the summers sodden.
But still those leaves would sprout each turn,
To yearn for the next and not forgotten.

And now, so proud, this statue stands,
And boasts a sturdy structure sound.
Around the wood his widespread hands
Abound with the twitter of avian bands.

At last this behemoth can thrive,
Every branch flushed red with life.
Each Spring each bud springs into sight,
For a tree so happy, so lush, so bright.