While the cats sleep here’s a poem selected more or less randomly from my efforts in the poetical sphere;
My lord sits silent in his tower
across the sun-flecked strait,
though all the mountain flowers sing
and angels crowd his gate.
My lord stays deep in shadowed fear
across the severing sea,
his face turned from the urgent sun
and dulled his memory.
My lord won’t walk the island turf
beneath the open sky,
nor risk upon the tides of chance
his cherished liberty.
My lady walks the nearer strand,
she keeps the golden key,
watches the tower’s shuttered face
across the angry sea.
She dare not cross the surf-flecked strait
nor brave the island shore;
my lord’s deep dark of weary pain
has barred the heavy door.
She’ll dance upon the sand, my lord,
she’ll sing along the shore,
she’ll spin the fine gold shining thread
that twists from her soul’s core;
angels shall bear that thread, my lord
across the green dark sea,
and as they lay it at your gate
shall sing of liberty.
But wind the frail bright thread, my lord
but walk beneath the stars,
but let the soft moon’s gentle beams
dissolve the tower’s bars.
While the mountain flowers sleep, my lord
cross to your lady’s side,
and walk with her in quiet accord
beside the gentle tide.