Timmy Angel Naylor

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,
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Someday I'll walk away with you,
Stealing across the early dew.
Showing to the sunrise
A friend to trust my heart,
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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
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Ours, the infantile Machine,
Will crawl through craned black landscapes
Craving death and leaving this:
The dashed-down grindled grit that
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She came sometimes
To the end of the lane
And sat on the bench.
Looking at books
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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.
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As she walked upon the sand
She dropped a pebble from her hand
And I, curious,
Picked it up and studied closely.
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Oh to be that child again
And ride my bike down Ferry Lane.
Wind and speed conspired with the sun
To steal my heartbeats
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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
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It hangs on a nail
At the back of the shed
With a mantle of mould
And a spider's web makes a veil.
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This whispering hour in the Autumn
Lends best to consider his way.
His looking, frail, through pale frames, and
Pensive.
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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.
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