Today the bell tolled for you and I,
Ringing out its muffled pure lament,
Its unique solemn tone seemed to cry
A requiem for a love that sadly died;
Not a sudden death, neither shocking,
But instead a long, sorrowful farewell,
A tardy wave in a most stilted goodbye.

A stooped mourner stands totally alone
Staring down into the bottomless grave,
Knowing there is no hope of resurrection,
That love has really gone now; it had its time;
All mourners turn to their beloved memories,
Making the unstoppable days seem bearable,
And the survivor in us is taken onward in step
By the force within that will not quell, hope.



Where did all that passion go?
Down the plug-hole with the soapsuds,
Or float out the window in a row?
Did it slide beneath the trolley wheels?
Trundling endless supermarket isles,
Or get drowned in night-time baby cries?
Neglected carelessly, then sadly lost
Down the trodden stairs of everyday life
And through the door to the fireside,
Where in all those enduring years
We watched the hot embers cool.


If you like reading about romance and family life then you may enjoy The Beautiful Voice of Professor Llewellyn.  A light-hearted, modern look at family life and romance later in life.  The storyline also explores the difficulties of mental illness within a family and  its impact.  The book is available in hard copy and on kindle from Amazon (Romance & Family categories)


Standing on the old steps at Marlfield

Looking out across the furrowed fields,

Dark-brown earth in neat turned rows,

The yellow wheat stubble buried now

Heralding the ever changes of autumn.

The swallows left us for warmer climes

But the crows still bicker on the chimneys

Or flock on fresh frosty furrows to feed.

There is a wispy silver mist hanging

And a chill sharply bites the early air,

The warm long light-filled evenings

Now darkening and winter bound,

This unrelenting force of nature

Pushing us onward through our life

Perpetually moving yet set seasons,

Our only stability and only sureness

In a turbulent and unstable world,

And as I look out at the mighty oak

Its acorns dropped among its leaves,

This pattern for three hundred years

Seen, its beauty acknowledged always

By those in the now and those long gone,

That mighty and majestic oak stands alone

Yet will be taller still when I have long fallen.


When there is not love

The heart aches for it

A sob sits in its core.

Sad longing within

So careless a thing

To find it then lose it.

For love is the skip

Bounce in the step

Beat in every day

Great love, that is.

But who loves well?

Always mistakes

Some put right

Other not, and sit

To drag the skip

Break the bounce

Beat love dead.

For shame, for love

Was always our reason

That makes us our best.


Bun-in-the oven bride walks down the isle

With lacquered hair-do and toothy smile.

The poxy groom hung over and pasty

Wonders whether he has been too hasty.

He looks to the doors – is it too late to run?

But one eye notices the butt of a gun

Peeping out, a shade of deathly grey,

The decision was made – he would stay.

O miserum O miserum

Ten years on and four children later

All love has gone, infact he hates her.

Ma and kids have gone back to mother,

Where as he has taken up with another.

He’s all right, his new love is quite pretty

Supposedly, something, big in the city.

The new sophisticate is wined and dined,

Theatre, opera! Poxy became Mr Refined.

O miserum, O miserum

Ma, by contrast is down, dowdy and broke,

Sex-starved and lonely and longing fo a bloke,

The children are monsters, absolute pains,

She knocks back Quiet Life to keep her sane.


The hole in my cold heart

Is an open, sore abyss

Through which a steely

Stinging rod sits tight.

The once soft beating red

Is blue, stringy and sinewy.

Scoop it up and place it

On your  butcher’s block

Why don’t you just try?

Why don’t you jab it again

With some other jagged edge,

Prod hard its toughy grain?

This oven-baked burnt lump,

Singed by barbed hot spews

That erupt in quick-fire spurts

From that huge gape in your face,

Sending me stone-faced, tight-lipped

Down, down through the clock face,

Blasted by its relentless ticking

That constantly drowns me out.

Time is running on and out now

To find that heart softening cure.

The piercing rod may always be

A thing unwanted inside of me.