© roy ballard 2012

 

 

Within a faded attic of the mind

I saw you; it was dusty with despair,

with dry, dead leaves on flowers left behind,

with bleaching silk and curtains, half-drawn blinds

and then I thought saw you standing there

within this faded attic in my mind.

I saw you there but words I could not find;

too many words had flown and left me bare,

like leaves that wilt on flowers left behind.

You called my name and whispered something kind;

your cherished voice sang in the arid air

within a faded attic of the mind.

Love lost for words grows empty and confined

to hang on what a wilted stem can bear

like leaves that dry on flowers left behind,

like flower buds that never did unwind

for vanished seasons left them hanging there,

within a faded attic of the mind.

© roy ballard 2012

      Love song

You little, bright-eyed wanton,

who lately left me smiling,

of love you have convinced me

with every kind beguiling

but so convince me every day

for love is wont to slip away

with swifts and swallows flying,

to leave a lover all aheap

and everybody crying.

I see the garden where you are

and feel perpetual pining

to search the heavens in your eyes

and count the stars there shining.

At night I see a desert place

with stars above its sandy face

with you and me reclining

though not a star is half as bright

as you and me entwining.



             Lovers' flowers

What's the lover's favourite flower?
Gorse in bloom for me and Jenny,
golden blossoms, ten-a-penny,
every month and every hour.
What's the reason? Love's in season
when the gorse coes into flower:
every month and every hour.

Twenty skylarks set to singing,
twenty throats are none too many
when the songs are sung for Jenny.
Crowding on the day's beginning,
silver-throated, Jenny-doted,
scented music, darting,  flinging,
potent-pointed, sweet and stinging.

              Ski draglift phenomenon

The sun burns bright; the snow glares back

from slopes that dazzle as we pass

then change to unexpected black,

to shadows seen through darkened glass.

All night the moon was on the frost;

stars danced upon the shining snow;

in careless merriment they lost

their jewellery, flung to and fro.

Now gem-strewn, glinting, diamond-laced,

turned shadow still in sun’s full blaze,

the black snow flashes, crystal-faced,

and scintillates with coloured rays.

The crushed snow creaks; skis cut and hiss

but we are silent, lost in this.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

I do not like your looks at all.

You have aged indifferently

and what I like I do not see.

No matter what the pose I strike

what I see I do not like.

Mirror can you really claim

that you and I still look the same?

Soldiers on parade, Eastbourne, 1938

Some preferred the piping men

and some preferred the drums

which have a yellow tiger skin 

portending as it comes;

with tum-te-tum and tum-te-tum

I skipped along beside the drum.

I preferred the whirling sticks,

the polished leather gear,

the tiger skin, the braided coat,

the splendid volunteer

whose beating drum aroused our cheers

and tum-te-tum for mother’s fears.

War came to the piping men

and to the drums came war

which flayed them like a tiger skin

with bloody tooth and claw;

with tum-te-tum and tum-te-tum

it took them all to kingdom-come

Daffodils

They all wear the six-fold ruff,

the badge of April, cruel lord,

but flaunt the colours

of their noble lines

with trumpets of the red

of sulphur yellow or the palest peach.

For only those well-born

are fit to dandy in his chancy court,

to bend and bow before the shifting winds

of changeable April;

who brings hail despite the sun;

who breaks necks despite beauty

who of a sudden often lays them low.