This hat demands Someone with a strong personality To stand under its brim. Someone who always walks Down the middle of the pavement. Who only ever patronises High class establishments Selling hats of good breeding.
This hat wants someone Who always carries an umbrella. Who never ducks into the nearest Pub For strong drink and a bag of crisps To sustain them, and who would never Hang this hat on the back of a chair To be attacked by a small Pomeranian.
After that, this hat felt so ill-used and abused It demanded a new owner. Very well! If you insist! But you just wait and see. You’ll not get very far without me.
Obviously, the hat shrugged its brim, Clearly didn’t believe a thing I had to say. Calmly murmured that from here on in, It would make its own way. The last I saw of that very superior hat, It was waltzing out of the door On a very superior head.
Late love, With all its tenderness, Turns us all Into navigators, Archaeologists, Gently blowing the dust of years From the site of yesterday. Sometimes finding the splendours Of Carter’s Tutankhamen, Sometimes bringing to light A tiny twist of yellow gold, Its brightness hidden from invaders.
Cautious, careful, We read books that tell us How to discover each other. One mystery sliding alongside another. Two historians coming together, Compiling a definitive account Of their life and times.
You know what? A hand reaching out for a hand, A smile answering a smile Breaks it all down To where any Lover could build a castle, Or a small shed if wanted, With a water feature on the patio. The oceans of the world Lapping the edge of the garden.
We have a favourite place in Scotland that overlooks the River Tay, so we often just sit there and watch the water. The Tay is also known as the ‘Silver’ Tay and it really does shine silver. It’s a very beautiful river.
Behind where we sit, there is an Old People’s Care Home and the ladies
are often sat in their little conservatory. Although they are old and
sometimes fragile, you can still see in them the lovely young women
they once were.
That they can see the Tay, too, must be a tremendous pleasure to them.
LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY
The swans are out again, Shimmering on the dark water, Dipping into the splashes of moonlight They become moonlight themselves, Every feather sculpted in light. Little white snowflake swans Drifting down the silent river.
Behind us lies the Care Home, Where glass walls welcome the lovely moon And one lone bed With a quilt as red as roses, Lies empty in a corner.
The old ladies who live there, Watching the white and sparkling swans Sailing on the glittering water, Dreamily send their pretty, remembered bodies, Down that golden moonlit path. Frail little birds Who soon overtake the swans.