When the pen takes control.

Motionless, she stood gazing down the tunnel. The path extended as far as the eye could see, encased by walls of grimy bricks. She imagined that she could just make out a pinpoint of light in the far distance. The tunnel was less than half a kilometre, no bends, no turns, no side passages in which to get lost. Still she felt reluctant to enter. The towpath was wide, her head torch bright, even if she stumbled she was unlikely to fall into the placid canal water. Sure, it may be cold but never deep. At last she imagined there was a light ahead as of someone approaching from the far end and berating herself for being so foolish took her first step.

Before the midnight chime has died away

clouds clear and icy Luna’s halo fades

from lofty heights the night-owl greets the day

and starts his nightly patrol of the glades

beneath wind blown grasses forest creatures

chew smiling on sun-fattened fallen seeds

all contributing to Mother Nature’s

scheme of things and for life’s pre-destined needs

long horned cattle tearing grass with long tongue

between their feet the striped marauder hides

to catch clambering creatures in their dung

the predator above silently glides

eartufts attuned for small scampering beast

continuing to search for nightly feast

To me it looked like my idea of Heaven, each morning I could see the light streaming in through the upper windows with the dawn unless darkened by rain when I could just lean back on the stone pillow, happy that the wooden floor was softer than my usual cobblestones, happy to dream my dreams away.

Seems quite strange that recently

A note on Facebook telling me

The death of a teacher Mister Lee

Used to teach me chemistry

Round about nineteen sixty three

Newly joined from university

In the school choir you see

Never seemed not busy

Even ran the school library

I went into the barn and looked around

no more frenzied scratching at the ground

hanging seed trays empty of corn

a dismal scene, looking quite forlorn

compared to the scene two months ago

before the Avian flu scourge took it’s toll.

If one door closes

they say that one may open

therein lies the key.

I suppose you would say it was a given

that because I quite liked David Niven

I should have enjoyed,”The moon’s a balloon,”

but sadly found it quite jejune.

Looking for the answers to life’s game has always been

the ultimate search for people such as I it seems

but for many it appears to have been long eluded

and it seems we might have been deluded

by well chosen words of poets in prose and song

where the rhythm carries thoughts along

and if you at first struggle with the theme

read it again and hopefully find the key.

Although for once he’s found a home

without perambulation

none can doubt his desire to roam

with steely determination

but alas I fear the shingle beach

will forever remain out of reach