I wonder, how was this morning for you?
Can you remember the sights and the sounds?
It is in the moments we see the truth
a thought, while I stand upon frozen ground.
At 8, I watched the steam rise from my tea
At 9, I felt the breathe of Sunday morn
I walked, watching Winter begin its weave
the flowers stripped bare, revealing their thorns.
But, the flicker of hope remains in the sky
as the summer yellow turns to bright white
there is still beauty in things as they die
and nothing more beautiful then this sight.
So, the next time you step into Sunday
be grateful for the moment that makes May.
Inspired by the bards birthday and it being St Georges Day in England. Love my homeland…
My soul searches all the small ancient nooks
but the verbal spaghetti isn’t clear
despite the exhaustive amounts of books
I say, Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.
England’s heart beats for you and our St. George
April twenty-three painted red and white
stories of dragons falling to his sword
and your words immortalised in the night.
The sun rises and we are still breathing
ancient castles, vast woods, and national pride
shaping the might of Albion’s dreaming
twisting and turning along with the tide.
I am a child of this lovely island
with her future out there on the horizon.
Great Winter hath followed this heavy heart
foundeth myself upon a rustic inn
I beseech’d the Sirrah to play their part
pity fell upon mine self and cousin
Pray thou bestow us with hot steamy broth
methinks thy counsel is wiser than some
perchance thy maid could bringeth us some cloth
wherefore I wash in thy room, hither come.
Hark! The Queens gold I have a few pieces
opportune trades beckon from town yonder
pray let me returneth thy good kindness
mine fortune, I giveth thee to plunder.
For thy selfless goodwill thy shalt be repaid
anon, thine soul shalt be measured and weighed.
Inspired by one of my favourite Blackadder clips…
Dear Mr Shakespeare, Today I must write
and give a whole hearted thank you, to you.
Like the sun, your words are shining so bright
across the stars and history, it’s true.
Present students are filled with weary eyes
as line by line, we dissect plays like frogs
incomprehension we cannot disguise
as we pull on our fifteenth century togs.
However, fair is fair on the world’s stage
when you master the human condition.
With your timeless life lessons on the page
so all your descendants could rendition.
So thank you for the last four hundred years
and cheers to you sir! I raise my warm beer!