If, with drip-filled dew,
Cities of wet bricks sleep,
Something presumably dreams
Yet very silently, but for plips
Down of rain when water is
Swelling where woodlice drown.
Pond plops in hope, drops
Kick cold fish to wandering,
Circles of sacred circles sacred,
Green all trees and grass in rain,
Wet holes of blue among black clouds
Spurt moments of sunlight, damp.
Rainy is the rain, blurred
ls the sky, morning or dusk,
Trees drip wet drops from their greenness,
Essence of green is their truth.
I do love Kelvin Bridge;
Not the bridge itself ye ken,
But the view in crisp bright sparkling night
Of star-light dark-blue spire-poked sky,
Or the sunny days of occasional summer
With the trees rustling by the rippling stream.
Aye, I like it. You would never know
You were in Glasgow.
To Stan Bell
In dedication to a real Poet,
Someone who feels the whole world
Around him; nature, humanity,
Full of warmth and great thoughts,
Always investigating enigmas, in love and perseverance.
One who uses Intellect,
And breathes Imagination
And Musicality: uniting ideas,
Beliefs, commitments, and dreams,
And observations into everything.
R.L.S. And J.B.
I wouldn‘t forget
In Robert Louis Stevenson‘s house
Even if I did drink absinthe all the time,
The fantastic voyage with the pen;
Perhaps I would even fly
Like James Barrie‘s Peter Pan,
Miraculous are the hopes in dreams.
Paean To Pain
Such it is
If such spans
Or a note
Flows in rain
Thus in the branches
Waving and heaving
The Alpine air breathes heavily
Delicious is the dawn in mountain sleep.
Wake up! Be among the elements and plants
The full flying animals flapping through the air
Insects hopping and chirping free
Dark clouds dispersing before the sun
I Love What I Barely See At Night
I love what I barely see at night,
And never notice in the day,
Just in the squeezed-between moments of dawn or dusk
O how the colours of purple flowers
Burst in ecstasy upon the lawn!
O how the rain-drops drift across
The misty hedges and green trees
Here in my garden in Glasgow!
O that crunch underfoot!
Dust and gravel moistened in the rain!
In a bright light sun-flowing morning,
When all is quiet as a dreaming stone!
Sleeking liquid down the bricks!
Cool sun light sparkling,
And I alone.
In The Land Of Counterpane
In the land of Counterpane,
In a child‘s secret garden,
Don‘t destroy a jumping cricket,
Nor a giant dragonfly.
They may be your other soul,
One from before and one for after —
Your timeless pin of eternity!
O the miserable hand of my summer‘s play
Hath nearly killed a little woodlouse.
Harmless little friend that never hurt
Me, but hath often offered me ideas.
Poetry In The Arboretum, Botanic Gardens, Glasgow
Like some ancient, sacred rite,
Down-bended before deep beauty,
Autumnal hues in an arboretum,
Mist hovering over the Kelvin.
Poetry carved into Kirklee Bridge,
“isionary immersion into nature.
My Heart Is Dark
My heart is dark
And in this darkness
All is blurred,
No light strains through
To hold more than an instant;
To grasp or scratch
At particles of light
Dazzling is death,
Points of fading light
Give softness at last.
I Feel At War
I feel at war with holy pain,
Buffetted about in my own ignorance,
Love expanding, sometimes exploding,
Flashing its torch upon reality, sporadically,
Ah, the beauty of the turning moon,
Ah, the beauty of the burning moon,
The stars are not so beautiful as the moon
When I see you; a slither moves up my spine,
As a snake, and steals my soul from me,
Then I burn.
Shake Off This Slumber
Shake off this slumber
Together, my love
Enter we an orchard
Apple-blossoms in perfume.
Enter we sweet dreams
On soft grass, lie down
Under skies of summer blue
Where skid puffs of cloud.
Emerging in a haze with painful ecstasy,
I raise my head slowly, in deep, drugged dream,
The world is bursting in sensuality,
Lovely girls dance in lush gardens
Of purple flowers and red berries,
Crimson fruits and giant leaves,
Wavering in soft perfumed currents,
Luscious scents and swooning moods
Of far-removed fantasy, deep from the soul
Of Love‘s existence, everywhere.
Flies With Their Wings
If some flies have beautiful wings
It must be because they love to fly
In dreamy adventures, in pitch-night air;
Or, perhaps, they never knew
Why they shimmered so wondrously,
For many millions of strange years,
Translucently before the sun, miraculously before the moon,
With noone there beholding them.
Their wings were blue, green, transparent,
Beating faster than the oscillations
Of thought, yet not so fast
As electrons zooming within their cells,
Nor mitochondria producing proteins,
Nor the light-waves wafting out
From their glorious flying dances.
Could they know why they flew?
Do they know, today, their wonder?
When they grace a night-time garden,
Or a pond in brilliancy
Of sunlight, streaked upon the water,
When reflections ripple like dew,
Or some imaginary fairies play
Deftly upon the banks, or blow
Kisses to all their invisible friends
That hover around the shafts of moon-
Light, radiating in musical turns,
Like dancing miniature ladies, dreaming:
Flickering souls that touch the Dawn?