Tag Archives: death

On Hearing Of The Death Of A Former Colleague

The business of work stopped
When the sickle chopped
For you
Who
Knew
When
To wield a pen.
But you
Could laugh too.

How silent is the office now
That your paperwork is done.
The serious and the fun
All must
Blend
In the end
In dust,
And in the memories of we who live on
After you are gone.

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Macbeth’s Owl

In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
Who
When
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?

Who
On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.

Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Cry.
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.

You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.

My Grandfather

Creosote
On a hot
Day.
I lack the words to say
How the smell
(I know so well)
Carried me away
To where I can not stay,
For he has gone into the forest green
(Which I have seen
Though I can not follow him yet).

I can not forget
Those happy days (now tinged with regret)
For a fence does divide.
Yet he lives inside
My heart
And is forever a part
Of me.

The land I see
Beyond the fence is lush
With tree and bush.
I can not rush
And no not when
I shall see him again.
But see I must
For I am dust
As he
Who loved me.

Fleeting

My poem, “Leaves Blown At Night”, came to me as I walked with my guide dog, Trigger, on a December evening in Liverpool. The leaves blowing around my feet reminded me of the fleetingness of things and, in particular my own mortality

My Owl

I have lived in Upper Norwood since 1997. Upper Norwood is one of the greenest parts of Greater London and I am fortunate that my home overlooks an historic park. The prevalence of greenery leads to a diversity of wildlife, including foxes and owls.

From time to time an owl’s mournful cry reaches my ears. I like to think that he (or she) is the same owl. However given that I have resided in the same spot for some 20 years this is impossible.

Below is my poem “Owl

“Owl” can be found in my collection of poetry “Refractionshttps://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L5UC2H2

Keats had his Nightingale

Keats had his Nightingale, which made him think of death.
I have my owl, which brings to mind Macbeth.
Tis a different name
For the same
Thing.

The morning birds sing
Replacing the owl’s cry
And I
Ponder on Keats, who is remembered still
And wonder will
My owl survive
Long after I am alive.