IRIS
The rainbow is so beautiful
It can’t occur by accident;
Its fluted columns must infer
The presence of an architect.
Its psychedelic arches stretch
A mile in diameter;
Its spanning spectrums silhouette
A heavenly geometer.
Throughout recorded history,
A solemn promise made by God
To use his coloured canopy
To save us from another flood.
The sunshine and the sparkling rain
Combine in perfect harmony
Until the leaden curtain falls again
On suffering humanity.
By Simon R. Gladdish from his book Torn Tickets and Routine Returns
FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW
As another new day dawns, an arctic silence
Lies upon the frosted furrowed fields.
A bitter breeze blows through denuded trees.
A bunch of disillusioned crows sit hunched
Among frost-blasted branches,
Mourning for the summer days long past.
In the distant woods, a wily fox returning late back to his lair
Gives out a sharp consumptive cough,
A sinister sound, enough to set the huddled birds
A shuddering on their perches.
A wintry sun shines weakly in a blue uncertain sky,
Reflecting rainbows in the glittering crystals
Suspended like diamonds from the cottage eaves,
Trembling in Zephyrus’s icy breath.
A brazen robin trills his song, defying Death
Who masquerades in winter’s hoary mantle.
Across the bleak and whitened wastes of empty fields
The strident call of some triumphant pheasant can be heard,
Strutting proudly through the ploughed and furrowed iron ground.
A haughty bird who bears his noble plumage like a shield of honour,
A brightly feathered coat of arms.
But now the winter’s day is disappearing,
As Vesper spreads his cloak of gathering gloom,
And in a clearing through the snow clouds
Can be spied brave Hesperus travelling home.
MORPHEUS AND REYNARD
Wrapped in Morpheus’s poppy scented cloak
Lost along the paths paved with unwanted dreams,
There came a sound so strange that broke
Into my unconscious, a lingering, chilling, sobbing scream.
The clock ticks on and you breathe easily beside me,
I lie awake, all senses straining in the dark,
Waiting for another sound to reach me,
Listening for the fox’s prehistoric bark.
Going quickly to the open window,
I gaze upon the silent and deserted street,
And suddenly I catch the faintest echo
Of Reynard’s snarling cough as he retreats.
SANS TOI
It’s been a long weekend
Without you.
Time has telescoped.
Every second has flexed its muscles
Intimidating me with its presence.
To add insult to injury,
Watching the World Cup,
The television blew up
Just before the penalty shoot-out.
As soon as I took my eye off the ball,
England lost.
(Eat your heart out, Uri Geller!)
At night, unable to sleep,
Listening to Radio 2
Playing all their saddest
Most sentimental songs
I could hardly keep from weeping.
Still, you’re home this afternoon.
I’ve got to make the empty bed,
Hoover the food-stained rugs,
Wash the dirty dishes
And generally tidy up.
And just for once, just this once
It will be truly a labour of love.
Wales on Sunday
Six o'clock and it's pissing with rain again
It always rains in Wales and when it doesn't
It hails.
Nothing to drink, nothing to think
Except for a vague depression
Tugging at my entrails,
Bills coming in thicker and faster
Than junk mail and infinitely
More frightening.
The monotony is is momentarily stunned
By a flash of lightning
And a dramatic roll of thunder
Nobody cares a cowboy's cuss
About the stress I'm under
Is it any wonder
I feel depressed, obsessed, unblessed, compressed,
Tempted to get up, get dressed, head out west,
Play the uninvited guest and pay (if necessary)
To be amorously caressed
By a beautiful dumb blonde
(If only I can find one)
By Simon R Gladdish from his book Original Cliches
Rhossili Bay on the Gower Peninsula, Southwest Wales. We're only 35 minutes drive away from this heavenly spot!
DOUG (IN MEMORIAM)
Doug is sitting in his usual place,
(I can see him through my bedroom window)
Gazing into a sun-filled space,
A secretive smile on his poor sad face,
Staring unseeing, unblinking,
What are you thinking of Doug?
Sifting through the back numbers
Of your brown-edged memories,
Turning over the long-lost leaves
Of the relics of your past.
Casting back through the cobwebbed hall of memory,
Cocking your ear to catch the lingering strains
Of a forgotten melody when the verdant valleys rang
With the timeless tunes of the male voice choir.
When the music swelled to a crescendo,
Spilling over and washing down the
Face of the honeycombed mountain,
But that was in the olden days.
And do you remember when we sang Myfanwy
Down in that dark, dank dungeon of a mine?
Buried alive boys, buried alive!
Buried in the bowels of mother earth!
Praying for a miracle of swift rebirth.
Ah! Those were the days, the drear doomed days,
But they’re dead and gone and there’s no more roving
Over those broom brushed hills.
By Rusty Woodward Gladdish.
