Magic

Softer than a morning breeze
her lips caress my cheek
the scent of her so full and near
leaves me warm and weak

silken hair like summer rain
cascades around her face
eyes bluer than a bright lagoon
yet deep as distant space

Victoria is Queen in London Town.
The Empress rules it all with velvet hands.
‘Tis eighteen eighty eight, the city’s brown
with coal and cholera that vex the land.
But down on Fleet Street starts a tale of woe.
Her Highness will learn nothing ‘til too late.
For Secretary Fitzroy’s caught a blow
delivered of a monster’s razor hate.

You left me standing there
with only hands to fill my pockets.
I was hurt and in pain
as I turned to ponder my regrets.
And if you were to say
you chose well when you didn't choose me,
I would have to agree.
I turned out just like you thought I'd be.
A little thin on top,
a little thick around the middle,
the toilet seat is up,
and I still can't play second fiddle.
But those things were minor
when you spat those nasty words at me.
I couldn't be the man

Long tassels of birch hang - golden 
their autumnal attire
like bell-pulls for the seasons opening
so fitfully they swing towards the south
saluting geese in v formation 
their gentle beat of winged migration

september tints the trees 
makes misty mornings rise through rotting woods
carries the perfumes of the valleys
dreams of summer sun into the haven of the heavens 
where clouds make grey backcloths 
for the coloured scene