Timmy Angel Naylor

I am Miriah, from the old wood.
Sometimes I'm naughty
Sometimes I'm good.
I live in the wood, so green and so wild.
...

There was a mystic, antique maggot
In the ochre eye
Of a man who played reeds on the burial mound.
And an eel in the ditch
...

Dockerty Sprocket dropped her clock
Right out of her shopping basket.
She wanted to pine but she hadn't the time and thought she'd better ask it.
So she went to butcher
...

In grief she came to stand alone
To gaze upon the names in stone,
The fallen in the wars of man
From Passchendaele to Afghanistan,
...

Someday I'll walk away with you,
Stealing across the early dew.
Showing to the sunrise
A friend to trust my heart,
...

It was windy on the day we wed.
The little breeze blew fragile leaves
Like silver lace
Across the face of the sun that peered through
...

Ours, the infantile Machine,
Will crawl through craned black landscapes
Craving death and leaving this:
The dashed-down grindled grit that
...

She came sometimes
To the end of the lane
And sat on the bench.
Looking at books
...

In a Kaftan coat and an Afghan hat
On a box by the side of the road he sat
And played a battered
Piano accordian.
...

As she walked upon the sand
She dropped a pebble from her hand
And I, curious,
Picked it up and studied closely.
...

Oh to be that child again
And ride my bike down Ferry Lane.
Wind and speed conspired with the sun
To steal my heartbeats
...

There was a gamekeeper's cottage in Wiseholme Wood.
Nestled in a clearing,
Of warm red brick and rosemary tile.
And ringed by a slowly waving and cheering throng
...

It hangs on a nail
At the back of the shed
With a mantle of mould
And a spider's web makes a veil.
...

This whispering hour in the Autumn
Lends best to consider his way.
His looking, frail, through pale frames, and
Pensive.
...