© roy ballard 2012


Bluebell wood                                
Between the oaks and through the briars
and underneath the sycamores           
the bluebells run like spirit fires,
inflaming on the leafy floors;
besetting lovers, hotly yearning,
lying where the fire is burning.
Burning!
Burning, burning all aflame
with a fire they cannot tame.

The nettles grow near Bluebell Wood
and rafters rot beside a wall
where other lovers came and stood
their names and faces past recall.
Busy moles and worms interning,
leaves and mould to nettles turning.
Turning!
Turning, turning; fallen petals
unremembered turn to nettles.

It’s time that damps the lovers’ flame.
Impatient time cannot delay
obliterating every name
and rushing everything away.
Time is blinkered, love is ranging
ever further, ever changing.
Changing!
Changing, changing as we lie,
changing into love gone by.

 

Nocturne
Do you remember, white, white maid
how pretty was the couch we laid?
Oh! Call it heather, call it ling,
bare on the naked heath we’d cling,
close to the very noon of night,
the summer moon in roundest light
atop the trees while we, beneath,
in shadows black upon the heath,
like silver trout in some dark pool
each took the other one to school.
The summer moon, her face all red
from watching us, lit up our bed;
a friend who never hid her face
nor gave away our hiding place.