David Wood Poems

If we could only see into the future
Like we can see our mistakes of the past
We could just be like the surgeon’s suture,
Cut out life’s mistakes with a stitch to last.
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Poets are martyrs to their art
For every syllable on every page
Words used sparingly with love:
What is their fate in future years?
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My love reminds me of a summer’s breeze
That wafts gently through a wildflower meadow
That rustles the leaves on golden beech trees
And your love keeps me in your cool shadow.
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No winters storm, or tempests vile power
Can wrest my love for thee from my bosom
Thou art dearest my love’s sweetest flower
That doth form our gardens greatest blossom.
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I am death and I welcome you with a kiss
And gently hold your hand as you drift off into bliss.
Do not fear me as I welcome one and all
At the end of all your days, at the end of your summer ball.
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Fear is a burning flame that
Burns all hope. The spark
That ignites that flame comes
Out of evil hearts.
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Walking along the old river path
With the warmth of the sun fresh and new,
I saw a robin in a puddle having a bath
To the sound of a distant cuckoo.
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My love is not disdained by your sharp tongue
I’d rather your tongue hate me than your eyes
Time has mellowed that what we did when young
With our courting under brooding dark skies.
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The drive to the cemetery at Oystermouth
That long crawl up that steep hill
To the New Section to the south
Was but the bitterest of pill.
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Coldness is felt in many ways;
Laying in yesterdays news
Under an archway is one.
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