on the cusp
of waking
having been
at the cricket
on the verge
of dreaming
having been
almost sleeping
on the step
of daily rising
having been
elsewhere with you
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
on the cusp
of waking
having been
at the cricket
on the verge
of dreaming
having been
almost sleeping
on the step
of daily rising
having been
elsewhere with you
at the time
half-awake
half-asleep
then falling
the whole way
into slumber
thanks to the warmth
and the darkness
branch by branch
trimmed
such that the beauty
of the lime tree
can be seen
from the meditation seat
more will be revealed
as further cut-backs occur
a new landscape
will be formed
by the labours of love
fresh vistas
with joyous celebrations
of wild flowers
beside open water
altogether caught
by the veritably
warm and welcoming
soft rays of sunlight
their landscapes though
remain the same
as if in time
on the sands
their sunrise
rises at dawn
or on the moors
their sunset
sets at dusk
the reason of which is love
if on the other hand
she makes the statement
i no longer want to be your lover
but i could be your friend
to which he instantly responds
i cannot do that i have to leave
in those moments
an irretrievable breakdown occurs
the cause of which is love