In the mine

Within the slate mine,
world cut from blue grey,
crafted into monolith display,
painted by relentless rain,
clouds close in, taking hold,
hugging close to mountain sides,
shadows in my eyes.

Matters of the heart

For I could not have known,
the raindrops falling down,
were God's tears of sorrow,
shed for our latest trial.

Museless mirth

I wanted to write you a poem,
not just some mere little scribble,
the poem to master all others,
that would set the page on fire,

A poem that would rip you heart out,
and leave it still beating in your mouth,
that would reduce you to tears in a second,
then have you laughing out loud the next,

A poem that would sail a thousand dreams,
then inspire your greatest achievement,
That would aid the performance of your life,
and be thought of tenderly,
in moments of worry and strife,

A poem that would seduce your senses,
setting alight your wildest fantasies,
have you begging to stop, yet yearning for more,
like making love in a thunderstorm,

A poem that, after one reading,
would leave you no doubt,
no other could satisfy your desire,
then would live in your mind forever,

But try as I might, the words won't come right,
and so I am sad to say,
I am sending you this, signed with a kiss,
from my mind to your lips.

Entranced

Just off the winding road,
following the rough shod path,
through boulder strewn woods,
on side of mountain edge,
this world belongs, to Elven Queen,
clothed in every shade of green,
her royal moss coats everything,
Smells of damp earth, quiet yet,
a magical rumble calls me,
further into her fortress,
There lies the source,
the power of Nature's cycle,
rumble turns to deafening roar,
aside magnificent Lodore falls,
raging torrent of white and brown,
a million gallons hurtling down,
a crashing dance over boulders found,
entranced, I am held fast.

The Sculptor

With water, ice, and fire,
he draws on a scale,
we cannot imagine,
then, gently she touches all,
colouring it in,
Nature, working tirelessly,
for him, The Sculptor.

Atop the rocks

As I sat atop, Crooks Peak rocks,
I surveyed the view across, the sunlit Somerset,
out to the east stand the Tor, the store, of Glastonbury's magic,
moving left, an almost perfect round, Axebridge's glittering blue pond,
Cheddar Gorge nestles close by, just hidden from my eye,
then to the south lies, Brent Knoll, standing alone,
a single rise, above the flattened land,
today above the river, hangs a dirty mist,
mirroring the muddy water, spread vastly out below,
As I watch, the wind is clearing, even this for me,
Sand point now showing, it snakes out westerly,
pointing the way to Wales, Just visible beneath hazy cloud,
the soft rumble of traffic, rises from the M5,
meandering beneath my gaze, it bothers me not,
for my ever companion, the wind, is lively today,
Pulling at my hair, chilling my ears, begging me to come play.

Can you hear them breathe

The spirits of the trees,
they comfort me,
providing support, for my back,
against smooth bark,
standing silently,
tall and mighty,
yet humble to the wind,
lest they fall too soon,

The sounds of the woods,
Soothe pained mind,
breeze gently rustling,
leaves on trees and ground,
an orchestra of birdsong,
greets those who listen,
the melodies sweet and high,
fill my sky for me,

I love these woods,
I know them well,
like old friends,
secrets they hold,
they have witnessed,
my fear, my tears,
my raging anger,
my ultimate bliss,
my stolen kiss,

Today I ask for nothing more,
than for solitude,
a quiet moment,
time to thaw,
to let go, yet know,
my roots are planted firm,
in my beautiful existence.