Spring song

The golden trumpet blows its song of spring
In silence, crying for the voice to bring
The early warmth of blossom, winter's end;
For snow and fog and hail from now offend.
Now only softest greens will be allowed
And hosts of daffodils - a Wordsworth crowd!

Soft pinks and whites of budding cherry flowers
And apples too in leafy orchard bowers
Provide the focus for an insect crowd
To pollinate: thus might they be endowed
With many a fruit for autumn's rich delight.
Yet wait! for there might still be frost at night!

And now the birds begin to sing their songs
To wake the morning and declare the throng
Of leaf and flower and insects now returned.
The new year courtship, many a lover spurned -
But others in their feathered finery have won:
Mating, nest building and joy as life's begun.

The warmth of early sunshine and the sound
Of myriad life awakening; now is found
The early budding cowslip and primrose
Which from the meadow grass quickly rose.
I love the sense of new awakening life
And end of winter's cold and stormy strife.

Beach farewell

We walked a while in silence on a beach set hard,

The ocean sleeping gently ‘neath the sky’s cloud smile,

Darkening the horizon, in an evening quite unstarred
And moonless.   We walked unspeaking many a mile.

Though there was much to talk about we left it all unsaid;

The wheeling of the knots at dusk,  the curlew’s cry -

We let the evening talk for us, attending it instead.

And as the evening talked on it spoke our last goodbye.

And now the years have mostly passed but I remember still
The years we walked together on the sandy beach of life.
The sea was often gentle, though it sometimes crashed until
We'd had enough of trouble, and we'd had enough of strife.


I wonder if remembrance is a gift of God,
Or maybe it's old Satan's way of building up our guilt,
Searching out our conscience and giving it a prod:
Stilettoing bad memories, to reach right to the hilt.


But I would rather dwell on all the happy times and good,
The smiling and the holding, the gently pleasing word.
For life's too short to dig up dirt to drown us in its mud.
The beach of life speaks out to us and everything is heard!

My city

I used to recognize this place.
I knew its size, its colour, face;
I knew the way the traffic blew:
The buses, cars and cycles too.

It was a place that lay, quite flat,
So cyclists in abundance went
Their to's and fro's, forwards and back,
In factories and docks descent

In teaming hundreds; sometimes more
Would cycle to their factory floor.
Blue collars in abundance then;
Now there are fewer working men.

On Hessle Road wives once would wait
Their men's return, their trawlers' fate;
But those for whom fish filled their dreams,
Are cast adrift in planners' schemes.

They ripped the heart from docks, and more,
They tore up many a factory floor.
Now concrete towers and malls abound,
Groceries traded out of town -
In supermarkets!

The working docks are now filled in
Providing parks and pretty places.
One's a marina full of boats,
The leisure of the one who gloats

At what his soft-earned riches bought;
While for the many work is sought
In vain and mean, demeaning dole.
This was my town; they took its soul!

What is love

"Love is the greatest thing," the poet said;
But I looked back at him and shook my head.
"Love?" I questioned.   "What is love?" I asked.
He looked at me.   His look seemed quite perplexed.

"Why, love," he answered, "Is the heart of man,
Seeking what he most desires where'er he can;
And caring for this thing beyond himself,
Regardless of its state, its poverty or health."

"Such love is what can make a life complete,
Fulfilment of the very heart of man.
Without it there is nothing.   I repeat, 
Love is enough.  It ends as it began."

I doubted and remained still unconvinced;
His argument had no effect on me.
"It seems," I answered, "That you are entranced
And blinded to the things you will not see."

"For love," I said, "is selfish in its aims,
Seeking only what it can possess;
And making too its own egotist claims
On what it says it loves.   This is distress!"

"Not so," the artist then claimed in reply.
The sage added his own answer as well.
"Love only tries to tell us of the why,
The how and what; love really can be hell."

And he expanded on this thought awhile:
"There's hurt in love, rejection, bitter pain,
That can be borne with gentleness and smile,
Knowing at the last it will bring gain."


"The love that dies upon the cross is such;
It carries in itself another's wound.
I warrant that this love will gain so much
As in the world has never yet been found."

I left and spent my time in deepest thought,
Pondering their replies, amazed at what they said;
For I had learned of love which souls had bought
Restoring man to God where Love had bled.


And gazing at an image of the crucified,
I wept for love of the Divine here nailed.
I knew it was for me that He had died,
To pay my debts and gain what God entailed.


This is the only Love.   All others fade and die.
I wish to love like this, to give my life as well.
To share this Love with all I meet, is my reply,
Sharing with them the road away from hell.

Bethlehem

Hills and sheep lie quiet in the depths of dark,
Shepherd watched the woolly wealth of nations.
Their guardians sit and wonder at the night
So filled with stars and silence.   In the distance light
Flickers, in this town of bread and census taking.

A song of songs now fills their hearts, their minds, their ears
And lights flash vivid through their darkness and their fears.

Glorias are sung; angelic peace is prophesied -
O wondrous heavenly night!   God's surely not denied!

Town-wards the shepherds travel, leaving flocks alone
(Though vulnerable lambs are cared for and still travel
In their securing arms), towards salvation's birth.
A maiden and a carpenter are here where cattle sleep.
A tiny babe seeks suckle from a virgin breast
And, wondering at this marvel, shepherds kneel and gaze
On Him whom Heaven proclaimed their Saviour and their peace.

A stable?   Surely God would choose a palace for His Son?
And yet this stable's Heaven itself when all is done.

The long lost garden

Remembering the beauty of a long lost garden,
Set between rivers and surrounded by waters;
Breezes to soften and sun's heat to harden
The land which He recovered and bought us.

Paradise lost and now rediscovered,
A garden where fruit trees were once forbidden;
An edict broken, a covenant severed,
But now a Lord to walk with, no longer hidden.

Clouds black the sky, the temple veil's broken;
Skull hill bears crosses where the dead will die.
Here is beginning's end which so long was spoken -
Now all creation waits patient for reply.

A stone is moved; the garden blooms once more.
The sun is risen, the glorious day has dawned.
Lost paradise regained now, Heaven is ours again.
Man's salvation paid for and we are re-born.

There is a sound...

There is a sound, a sound of gentleness,
From breathy flute and gently plucked harp strings;
There is a voice, a voice of peacefulness
Which, in the silence of my heart, now sings.

There is a touch, a healing touch I sense
Upon my heart, within my soul as well;
A hand divine, forgiving all my sins
And reaching out to guide me from my hell.

There is a cross, of punishment and shame,
The shame is mine, not His; He dies for me.
He hangs in anguish as He bears my blame
And with His blood spilt here, He's paid my fee.

There is a prayer within my silent heart,
A prayer of Hope, a song of praise and love;
In that same silence I have found my part,
As now He leads me to my home above.