Wintertime blues

Nothing's working out;
nothing's going right;
I can't do anything well enough
no matter how I try.

I know I'm through the direst time,
the darkening months, the shortest days
but I'm so far beyond my prime
the future still dismays.

My summer was the challenge of improving;
autumn even the triumph of achieving;
but now my efforts only bring
the satisfaction of enduring.

My diary lists convivial
events I can look forward to
but they all turn out disappointing
or else next day seem trivial.

Everywhere is full of couples -
Romeo/Juliet, Darby/Joan -
or, in between, Happy Families
while I'm now on my own.

I hate this life without my spouse.
Despite my busy days I dread
coming back to an empty house
with a cold and narrow bed.

My teeth decay; my joints give way;
it's no fun being old.
It's obvious what time will bring -
this winter won't warm to spring.

If I didn't live with you,
I really don't know what I'd do;
it's just because I laugh with you
that I can last the long years through
and if you leave, my life will end
without my lover, guide and friend.
Believe me then, while I'm alive,
it's only for your love I strive.

A Natural deceit

The recent week's warm weather seems

to have hatched the eggs of house and fruit fly.

But one part of Nature has deceived another

for the imminent cold will soon make them die.

My mum's dementia

"Who's that in the photo, there ?"
"That's me, your son."
"Oh, wasn't I good-looking when I was young ?"
I felt embarrassed she should seem so vain
but as old age had filched her memories,
dementia leached politeness from her brain
and loosed the normal verbal courtesies
from her vocabulary. What remained
was language that seemed sensible at first
"Where did you say this was coming from ?"
till constant pointless repetition strained
belief in any underlying thirst
for knowledge !
"Where did you say this was coming from ?"
                           Then the sadness of inane
remarks instead of conversation failed
to stop my irritation being plain.
"Smoking kills ? It's never done me any harm."
The lies about the chores un-done
"I cleaned the floor two days ago."
                                                      soon paled
beside the foreign places that she claimed
she'd visited, insisting she'd seen all
the tourist highlights. I am sure she blamed
me for my winter travelling. The gall
of feeling she was being slighted stained
her personality indelibly,
her sense of self-importance so engrained
she could, still sane, reply incredibly
to "Is there no-one better than yourself ?"
"No, I'm as good as anyone." Insane,
any suggestion meant to help implied
some criticism of herself; her main
conviction was she did no wrong. I tried
to reason with her sometimes but the bane
of our relationship she could not hide -
her disappointment and resentful pain
at her displacement by my bourgeois bride.
Even in forty years it didn't wane;
her only child, I carried all her pride,
and expectations baulked made her complain
"You said I'd live near you when Lily died
but sold the house without even telling me."
She wanted to be loved yet couldn't deign
to loving - but, now guilty while I live,
even affection I found hard to feign
and duty was the most that I could give.

' - - - the black highway snake - - -' Don McLean

The dark anaconda, silver striped,

stretches its length in the morning night,

unwinding an empty winding road,

blinking back at the flicking headlight.

The cobra uncoils, sways left and right,

poised for a sudden deadly strike

at any rushed bend too rashly unslowed,

carelessly tempting a fatal bite.

The python lies patiently out of sight

but its presence increases urban plight,

causing chaos where cars once flowed,

strangling the traffic

The boa constrictor also might

endanger rural streets at the sight

of deep winter drifts after it's snowed,

enveloping villages so tight.

So, all in all, these reptiles quite

hamper our everyday lives in spite

of the fact that before you read this ode,

your knowledge of them may have been slight.

Snow in May ? It happens every year:
the hawthorn blossom, drifted by the breeze,
lies heaped in layers, heavy on the leaves;

though poised to fall, the overhangs appear
to rise upon the wind, white flakes that fly
untroubled lightly tethered in the sky;

warmed by the sun to melt and trickle tears
or avalanche to earth and trampoline
the boughs, the wavy whiteness calmly leans

on air, at ease in summer atmosphere.
Those wedding whitelets revel in the sun
till bridal litter shows their job is done.

As long as man or beasts don't interfere,
discoloured snow becomes brown berry slush
forcing a future in a scarlet blush.

Don't ask "Where are the snows of yesteryear?";
they feed both birds and animals or grow
and metaphor to daisies down below.

Blinkered by youth and dazzled by
my own reflection in the glass,
I noticed only scenery
painted by others for a farce.

A wider view needs time to pass
with vistas even for the blind
though clarity needs different glass
for weaker eyes but wiser mind.