The Hermit

The Hermit lived on an island, on an island lived he,

And a small lonely island it was, in the middle of the sea.

For two thousand five hundred and fifty six days,

The Hermit had knelt in his little stone cottage and prayed.

He ate only bread and fish he caught from the sea,

And a sulky black crow was his only real company.

A fine little sailboat had he, one of finest ever made,

But let fall her sail he would not, until his debt he had paid.

A soul alone on an island, assuredly fighting to be free,

Contending with eyes closed; his enemies he could not see.

The Hermit lived on an island, on an island lived he,

And a small lonely island it was, in the middle of the sea.

Forest of Shadows - Sleeping Death

Bleak silver streams

the light of many a star

born from thrones in dark heaven

and swept in the suns demise

bleak silver streams

the radiance of eternity

paint the meadows in dismal shades

as sleeping death seep though the clouds

I stand motionless

and marvel with empty eyes

like a portrait of bliss forsaken

wearing the colours of loss

I stand motionless

like a grieving graveyard statue

and I drape my face with my bare hands

as sleeping death seep through the clouds

I felt a dying embrace

a soft breeze of weary winds

singing silent lamentations

a prologue to a tragedy untold

clad in the cold breath of October

the stars fall from their thrones

and my last gleam of hope fade away

In this crestfallen orchard where

the final chapter lies written

dressed in a robe of shattered dreams

as the flower withers

in this crestfallen orchard

where fallen leaves lies dying

I kneel down in solitude

as sleeping death seep through the clouds

I stare into the forever night

and I travel beyond the fallen stars

I sink into oblivious twilight dream

where my sleeping beauty

lies sleeping with the dead

Part One: Anguish

The morning was bright and frosty and the grass crackled underfoot. The air was full of the sounds of birds drifting through the trees and from somewhere the soft sound of a flute could be heard. Among the flowers which were opening for the day, bees buzzed about their work. A fox hurried through the undergrowth on some errand followed by a rabbit a few moments later -coincidence surely.

The trees were discussing something among themselves -you could tell it was just a casual conversation by the way they dreamily whispered. The sky was looking very beautiful dressed in a rich, deep blue and scattered scantily with small, white, puffy clouds. Some distance away from the group of trees -you couldn't really call them a forest for there weren't enough of them -the fields were also a buzzing with bees (I have no idea why for I couldn't see any flowers) and the wind caused ripples to run across grass, much like water. And down in the valley was a small river -or creek rather, a few ducks swimming around in circles and ducking their heads under the water (I do wonder if that’s how they get the name) and some geese stood on the bank honking at them like New York taxi's.

Suddenly a small bird flew into a tree and fell backwards onto the ground, it flew up and off then circle around and flew at the tree again falling back then hurling itself at the tree again then again, and again viciously throwing itself into the trunk. Each time a small flurry of blue and white feathers fell to the ground, again the small bird its feathers spotted with blood, hurled itself at the tree and this time it fell to the ground and flapped around on its back; it had broken its wing.

I had been holding my breath for the last few moments. I approached the bird which was still writhing around on its back, my heart was pounding and I had no idea what to do. It was after all, a small bird and couldn't hurt me so I knelt down and leant over it, I noticed that all sounds had ceased, even the tree's had become still. The bird was lying still now apart from occasionally twitching its wing, I cautiously reach out to touch the bird, it took no notice of me. I wiped the blood off my hand onto the grass and I felt in my pockets and looked around for something to pick it up in when I heard a strange sound. The bird seemed to have moaned, I knelt closer to it and it did it again; A strange high pitched moan unlike anything I had ever heard from a bird before; it was almost human like. This time the bird cried, a spine chilling wail. I jumped up away from it and my blood run cold as the bird started to to scream. A horrible, hideous cry that echoed through the forest. And then the bird became silent and the forest returned to normal.

Scenes From An Old House Facing West

In the corner a grand old fireplace sits, and on top talking to it’s old friend
gurgles a burnt black kettle full of dents and a broken handle.

A large pot of hydrangeas on the table stands, and a trail of ants lead to and from a forgotten plate of toast and jam.

A grey and white tabby lays motionless on the couch, and down by the skirting board a mouse is on the lookout for bits of food laying about.

On the wall is a painting of a trees in a field by John Constable, and on the coffee table lays an old leather bound King James Bible.

The old house faces west for reasons unknown. It catches not much sun at all, but tis warm inside which makes it a home.

Up on the ceiling a spiders cobweb catches a ladybird for dinner, and down by a grand four poster bed kneels a tearful sinner.

Behind the door a coat rack stands, full of fur coats, scarves and a selection of hats.

In the roof and in the walls the copper piping taps and rattles, and in the kitchen a jar of tomato sauce falls off the shelf and splatters on the floor.

A love letter lies unfinished on the desk, and down on the carpet the pen bleeds ink in a dark, unsightly mess.

At the kitchen door beneath the stack of firewood a snake awakes and tastes the air, and in the garden a group of hens search for worms and bugs.

Ivy creeps up the west wall near the sun room, and overhead a flock of ducks fly past in an unsteady “V”

On the table “An Essay on Criticism” sits open at page fifty-two, and the key to the back door hides patiently under the mat.