Why so sombre in the graveyard?
Why the wall around the ground?
What's so precious there to safeguard?
Not the contents of each mound !

Flesh and skin have gone forever;
bones are mostly all that's left;
personality is never
in a body life bereft.

Why then value stone and marble,
names and dates that gather moss,
cliched phrases, words that garble
honest pangs of pain and loss?

Back in former times, I grant you,
grave and headstone spun a thread
anchoring hope that souls continue,
mooring memories of the dead.

Now with photos, film and videos
all the good times glow again;
loved ones live in aching cameos,
revel in "Remember when . . . ."

Knowing life is only temporary
(life eternal can't be willed)
surely death is not a tragedy
(lest a life is unfulfilled).

So no need to mourn a person;
rather care for loved ones left;
loss and loneliness are certain;
loss however is not theft.

What remains is new life growing,
birds and badgers on the tomb,
procreation blindly flowing,
babies forming in the womb.

And if souls can really see us,
let them watch the kids at play -
skipping, squabbling, running raucous
round the graveyard all the day.

Don't let's have our ideas hidebound,
let's help youthful vigour thrive;
change the graveyard to a playground -
bring the cemetery alive.

Relationships are really funny;
we don't all fit like hand in glove.
Why will some women do for money
what others won't do for love?

Aleppo, Syria

Here on these artificial rocks
grow grassy spikes of aerials
and daisy dishes turning to
a man-made sun invisible.

Over this arid urban view,
a European alphabet
of jagged angles, broken lines,
the flights of pigeons play their part.

They glide and flow a sunlight ink
to brush on sky a cursive script,
a natural variation of
calligraphy of Arabic

Do you know what love is, Mother, do you know?
And can you tell me how to find it, where to go,
how I'll know it if I find it, does it show?
Oh, do you know what love is, Mother, do you know?

Daughter, love has many faces, you will see.
Just think how I love you and you love me
and how we love your father both and then how he
loves us, and you will know what love is, do you see?

Is that the whole of love then, Mother, nothing more?
What if tall young men come calling at the door?
What if someone says he loves me, is he sure
of what he says or just pretending, nothing more

Two things you need to know, my child, only two -
if what he says to you is really true,
and then, if you love him, how much he means to you.
But  oh, if there is nothing  you can do !

But if we loved each other, what could interfere?
Belonging to each other year by year
our love would be too strong for us to fear
that anything could part us, surely that is clear.

Love is not so simple, child, as you may find
if love as passion conflicts with love that's kind,
if your heart's yearning still cannot be blind
to how you'd hurt the loved ones that you'd leave behind.

Now I don't understand you, mother, do you mean
that love can cause you pain, can intervene
in happiness - has that ever been?
Mother, is that a kind of love that you have seen?

Yes I know what love is, darling, how I know,
breaking my heart to love him yet to let him go.
Quickly, come and kiss me, dear, and let me show
how much I love you. There. Now off you go.

We mark their maths and aren't impressed
by the knowledge that they show
but know they're not among the best
and the standard is quite low.

Then from the impersonal page the zest
of character gleams through;
with no more literacy blessed
their comments still ring true.

Explain your answer: "I just guessed."
Too honest or naive?
Not what's supposed to be assessed -
refusal to deceive !

A chance to get things off their chest:
"I'm sorry. I don't know"
"I never understood the rest."
"It's just that I'm so slow."

Perhaps their maths should not be stressed
more than their virtues, though
we emphasise what we can test
not what we ought to know.

Excuse my lust, unseemly at my age;
laugh if you must at someone not so sage
stirred by the bud and blossom of your youth,
spurred by your character's potential growth
watering dry wrinkles with summer rain,
promising pleasure but threatening pain,
colouring complexion, seeping through skin,
unfolding fantasies, reviving sin,
revivifying what had seemed dead -
a rescued life, in bed just in my head.

Seascape

I saw you twenty minutes ago
from the road on the hill.
Your face was not so deeply wrinkled then,
nor your manner so cold.
From the subdued land
you, the older sister seemed quite friendly;
the white waves were a twinkle in your eye
and the sun sliding between the clouds
brought young colours, greens and blues,
to your complexion.

At your footstool now
the grey waves, hostile,
show your strength and power.
Superior with your knowledge
of shores I shall not see,
of depths I cannot know,
your lonely beauty spurns me.

But I have seen you calm,
playful at my feet
like some small animal,
wiping my footprint from the sand
with a single teasing flourish of your hand.