A Lengthy Absence…

Haven’t posted anything for a good long while. Mainly because I had a baby girl back in June and I’m too busy in love ūüôā

I’m sure she’ll inspire a new era for my poetry… watch this space!

A Lengthy Absence…

On the Harvest

van gogh wheat field with crows

A song for the harvest, based on an old tale of folklore… (Painting by van Gogh – Wheat Field with Crows)

In early spring, young dreamer, Silas Crow
Did so lament his status as a farmer..
Not full o’ fortune, rather full o’ woe:
When came to growing wheat, he were no charmer…

Crow was his name ’cause he was friend o’ birds.
Nah chased them off his field, at cost o’ yield.
The crows he favoured, by his very words,
His admiration truly had been sealed.

One day, while he was fighting with some weeds,
(Who seemed to laugh at him – this farming joke)
Young Silas tumbled back, scattering his seeds…
He banged his head… ’til sunset hadn’t woke.

And when his eyes did open, looking down,
There was a friendly crow who opened beak…
Unsure if t’was the injury to his crown,
Young Silas jumped as it began to speak:

“Farmer…” it started, in a raspy tone,
“Ye wish a noted harvest for the year?”
Silas did nod. “Then seeds are to be sown –
Don’t waste yer time a-sittin’ on yer rear.”

The man got to his feet and Crow did spake:
“I’ll help yer to a rich and fruitful yield…
If ye do as I say, with no mistake,
Ye’ll have the fullest bounty o’ yer field.”

And with that, Crow did ask of the young man
For half his seed to feed his birdy friends..
Silas agreed, open to any plan
That might result in any fruitful ends.

So as the year rolled onwards, Summer-bound,
The crops did flourish well, not pecked and small.
Silas came out for battle with the ground,
The ritual pulling o’ the weeds so tall…

But suddenly, alighted his friend Crow,
Who merely stood and slowly shook his head.
Young Silas stopped and leaned upon his hoe
To listen to what Crow came forth and said:

“Pull up the weeds, but leave them not to die.
Instead, replant them, bordering the field.”
Silas, he frowned, and questioned Crow: “But.. why?”
Crow laughed: “Ye’ll find a fuller crop so sealed.”

So Silas did his biddind… and come time
To reap the fruits o’ harvest for the year,
He did indeed each farmer’s yield outshine.
He gathered crops and grinned from ear to ear.

After the grand harvest celebration,
When Silas took the crown for best o’ show,
The bird flew down and by him took his station.
Silas did thank and praise that wily crow.

The crow explained: “Plants are like earthly balance…
Each brother needs his sibling to be close.
A man can have a lifetime full o’ talents,
But listen to this Crow, so well verbose…”

“Without the vicious weed, there is no flower.
Without the lengthened nights, no rest for sun.
For now, ivy takes oak within its power…
The tapestry o’ nature here is spun.”

On the Harvest


Oh moon, so creamy, face so fat,
Ye cheeks a-ripe for pinches…
Let me give ’em a little pat –
Orion’s belt grows inches…

‘Tis not so shy this happy moon,
Uncovered by the night.
And rarely does he come too soon,
To cause a heavenly fight.

And so, to heated eve’s heartbeat,
Let moon shudder with bliss…
And scatter stars across night’s sheet
Before the morning’s kiss.



Them Good Folk

There’s a lot of good people in the wasteland

Amongst the bastards on their lofty thrones.

Behind the screens we sit and form a band

And dare them all to break our thinning bones.


I’ll ne’er see thee, not eye to eye, but read

The tappings on your desk at witching hours

And mark the words of anguish and of need

To find some form of touch that topples towers.


Exit the dungeon. Matters not the likes

And loves forced at this time of the morn.

Support for fighting ghosts, or rousing strikes

To voice the discontent that feeds the scorn.


Their out there, in the wasteland, them good folk –

Don’t shrivel back and silent shrink away.

Above the turret poek and drop your cloak,

Eyes open, smiling, join our happy play…

Them Good Folk