Sometimes, the heavens bellows
and cries out in silence.
But not all tears foretell sorrow.
Some presage happiness, hopeful joy.
Sadly, we seldom grasp the difference.

Little time is spared to listen to the beauty in the present.
We are deaf to the universe's subtle voice;
too consumed by self-made psychodramas.

We clamour foolishly to predict the future;
but overlook the gifts nesting on our noses.
Overdosed on the elixir of envy,

we lament what we do not have;
while tentacles of discontent obscure what we do have.

Time weeps.

It sheds real tears this time of year.
There is never enough Christmas cheer to soothe old scars.
And Santa is selective.
He only frequents certain postcodes,
although the shelves are emptying slowly.
I decided I must cull the unchaperoned memories
and replace them with old, rejuvenated photos that were once
ripe with laughter.
They still look perfect.

Tears inevitably come.

They will fall.

If you must cry, let your tears flow freely without restraint.
No holding back.

The night has ears that smile.

Soft, caring and attentive.

It cradles secrets.

The night is a river snaking through dreams,

resurrecting memories and giving life to desires.

If I had one wish
It would be to sit one last time by the sea feasting over dinner
to finish the laughter you ignited within me;
and to hear again those stories you penned so beautifully with your eyes.
I would gladly loiter on the sun-kissed, tree-lined shorelines of time
and soak up the beautiful brackish scents of your company. If I had one wish
It would be to sit one last time by the sea feasting over dinner
to finish the laughter you ignited within me;
and to hear again those stories you penned so beautifully with your eyes.
I would gladly loiter on the sun-kissed, tree-lined shorelines of time
and soak up the beautiful brackish scents of your company.

I wish I were a poet,

with superpowers to persuade moods,

cajole words and bend them to my will.
I would massage and juxtapose them,
and infuse them with special meanings.
With brazen sleight of hands,

I would summon verbal images

to gather possibilities out of thin air.

Hindsight pretends to have perfect vision,

but don't be fooled.
It can only recognise the past.
It professes to have knowledge and sound judgement,

but it lacks foresight.
Don't let it question your aged decisions.
They were made with the insight of inexperience.

I waited...

to relax in the shadow of your smile, but we were never there.
At the bottom of the hill, commingling with time,
gathering flowers and planting seeds.

We were eager;
perhaps too eager to tame the ragged surfaces of the climb.