Another witch in a cherry tree

The witch in my cherry tree

is no ordinary witch. 

She blows bubbles across my garden,

only in spring time, but that guarantees

the rabbit wont turn into an alien

or the canaries learn to croak.

My inner child delights in bubbles;

she's turned into a witch-spotter,

but without success. Disguised 

as a cherry blossom or 

a string on the Aeolian harp,

the witch waits and whenever the wind blows,

chimes and releases a cluster of bubbles. 

High-pitched

Today's one of those days 

when I want to die on top E

like Lucia di Lammermoor

except I would screech; so maybe better

to offer an ambiguous farewell,

a pre-Raphaelite Ophelia,

only I have no bath to drown in. 

That was this morning,

and now it's evening.

In the meantime I've performed

various mundane tasks

and the day, the way days do best,

has presented me with 

a lollipop display of 

tulips against a green lawn.

So now I'm content to sit 

by the fire, listening to Bach

and leave behind all that melodrama. 

Let's see what tomorrow brings. 

An M.S. Journey

I'm reluctantly lurching

up a steep spiralling road;

the summit is cloud-hidden,

the valleys billowing with fog.

Nearly half a lifetime journey

and I still don't know how far I've come.

There are no longer signposts,

shelters, lookout places, and the air

is becoming rarefied.

What should be an outward view

is only a smudge; at times,

below me, there's a landslide.

Whenever I try and rest,

the weather turns aggressive:

driving sleet and angry wind.

I have no choice but to stumble on.
There are no words to describe

the loneliness, the dereliction.

For Margaret

Six weeks later


I almost thought I saw her today,
slipping around my walnut tree
with a subversive smile.

I was all set to meander
through our shared past
and tweak it into
a new narrative mode.

But when I called out a welcome,
I was greeted by a long silence.