Orla, Rita and Mary.

Only those of tolerance seldom criticise,

Rarely does rejection issue from the wise,

Live and let live, compromise, harness bitter tongue,

And if you love the old ones, you’ll stay forever young.

Rivers are earths arteries, filling oceans heart,

Islands are her jewels, cut and set apart,

Trees, her living sculptures, art of mighty hand,

And people are the reapers, and the keepers of her land.

Magic moments seldom come, and last a little while,

And when they pass, your memory reflects them in a smile,

Remember also, as you must, those sad occasions few,

You cannot savor joy, without knowing sorrow too.

The Gravedigger.

Back stooped, eyes fixed,

Spade – sprouting hand,

Scores receptive clod-soil,

Opening as planned.

Hair slicked back, rigid,

Crowning high brain,

Quick skyline scan

Threatening rain?

Mound mounting higher

Of moist living clay,

Expecting new tenant,

Possession today,

Dig, six by three

Squared by a rod,

Corresponding pile

Of fresh sundered sod.

Then coverlet of green

Bedecked with pale petal,

Daisy and cowslip,

No thistle, no nettle.

Moss lined apartment

With palm green door,

Comforting, shielding,

Never opened before.

Expert eye-check

Over his dressing,

One more gone to God

With Dan’s blessing.

Dedicated to Dan Clyne,
A gravedigger with soul.