Beyond the Highest Cloud

Beyond the Highest Cloud Selected Poems Diane Lavery

Daffadowndilly Press

Published by Daffadowndilly Press

www.daffadowndillypress.com

Text & Images Copyright Š 2020 Diane Lavery Estate Back Cover Image: Women of the Blasket Front Cover Image: The Great Blasket Island

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher and the author.

Diane Lavery (1929-2018) : A short appreciation Artist, teacher, author, poet and inspirational mother, her distinctive style and technique has seen this affable lady to the forefront of contemporary Irish Fine Art with a career that spanned over 50 years.

Born Diane Marshall in 1929 in Enfield, England, spending her early years in London, Norfolk, Somerset and South Wales, Diane had a well-rounded upbringing, surrounded by books, paintings and with a family steeped in the arts, sciences and military service. In her late teens she spent several years in Service first with Lord Leicester at the majestic Holkham Hall where she had been encouraged to practise her drawing skills surrounded by the vast art collection. In one memorable story, she was mistaken for the young Princess Elizabeth during a drive past the Royal Albert Hall, London, in the Earl’s Rolls Royce and felt obliged to issue a "Royal Wave" to the pedestrians as she passed by!

In 1949 Diane married one of the famous “McAlpine's Fusiliers”, Bartholomew Lavery (1924-2004) and they moved to Ireland in the mid-50's to settle in the family farm on the Dingle Peninsula. She began painting professionally in 1967 when she joined the Kerry Fine Art Society. Diane went on to teach art at the Intermediate School, Killorglin during the 70's.

Diane took part in numerous national exhibitions and competitions, winning the Baumann Trophy in 1977 and 1978. Her first solo exhibition in 1983 was held in the old Siamsa Tíre building in Tralee under the guidance of the late Martin Whelan; she went on to have many sell-out exhibitions in succeeding decades, her most recent major exhibition was in 2016 at the United Arts Club, Dublin of which she was a member (founded by W.B. Yeats, Countess Markievicz and George "AE" Russell).

Side by side with her art, she wrote poetry and was included in many anthologies, she had four books for children published to date including two in Irish and published by An Gúm, Dublin.

On March 24th 2018, in her 90th year, Diane passed away peacefully at the family home, she had been writing up to the end, completing the introduction to this collection the morning before.

Introduction These are my favourite poems from a lifetime of writing, I hope that you will enjoy reading them, this will probably be my last time doing so. On Wednesday I travelled to Inch Beach with my sons, the wind was cool and strong, I felt I might have turned a corner, but I think what awaits me will be my curtain call and that outing my last hurrah.

Diane Lavery, 23rd March 2018

Contents 1 The Skylark 2 A Kerry Landscape 3 Blessings of the Blind 4 Salute to Spring 5 Forty Winks 6 Candlelight 7 Shadows of the Past 8 Winter 9 Ode to a Butterfly 10 A Lunar Landscape 11 The Sea from a Porthole 12 The Faeries 13 Childhood Memories 14 No Hope 15 The Wind 16 The Legend of the Cottage Ruin 21 Summer Circles 22 The Birth of Ireland 23 Fireside Reverie 24 Window Gazing 25 Ireland 26 Country Scenes from a Train 27 A Mine Disaster 28 The City 30 Seek No Solace 31 Ancient Flames 32 Home of My Childhood 33 No Escape 34 Time

The Skylark Oh! Laverock, dear harbinger of morn Whose rapturous notes, suffuse the very dawn With such sweet rarity are thee endowed Who soars so effortless Beyond the highest cloud.

What noble heart 'neath feathered breast, Beats sublime, all joy surpassed.

You set your course for heaven's door, Then surging upwards, trilling more.

Your tiny form eludes my eyes, Your song grows faint, I search the sky.

Then once again you come to view Oh! sweet exhilarations, Then stop, as if just hanging there In suspended animation.

Then o'er the sun, a dark cloud passes, The spell it breaks, how short it lasted, Then fluttering to earth, you rest, Then fly unfaltering to your nest.

The skies are high Lark The days are long.

Come happy minstrel Sing your song.

1

A Kerry Landscape

Gazing out one frosty morning, what was that I heard?

Through the mist, the sun was shining, there I glimpsed a host of birds.

All picking, hopping, chaffing, on the ground, upon the hedge.

There, the pearly, dewdrops glistened, at the willows bent, sprays edge.

As no earthly diamonds glitter, did they gleam upon that tree?

And the hoar-frost on the bushes, and the birds sang joyously.

Now the mists are rising, and the sun shines bright and gay.

I can see the fields, bound ditches, all the birds have flown away.

The morning sun casts shadows, across the silent, frosted grass.

To a new spun web of crystallised threads, where a languid, spider basks.

The rolling mists move onwards, the vista’s growing wide.

I see the valley contours, as the dip and rise and wind.

A silver ribbon called the Maine, majestic mountains tall.

The highest peak in Ireland, its name is Carrantuohill.

The evening sun sinks in the west, the mists once more descend.

The peaks, the valley, lost to view, each day must have its end.

2

Blessings of the Blind

I woke to find my world had gone.

For all the things I’d left unseen, remorse sets in.

On a tidal wave of half-forgotten dreams.

That hill to climb, that stream to lay beside.

And gaze above and round me, At God's, wondrous countryside.

No more, to watch the sun climb in the sky.

Or see its golden rays set in the West.

Yet, still I feel the warmth upon my face.

And the bitter chill of heartache leaves my breast.

No more to see the dew upon the rose Or glistening on an early morning web.

Spun by some industrious spider As a glorious, haven of death.

Yet, still I feel the phantom threads Caress my face and legs.

No more, to see the purple, in the black rook's wing.

But more acutely still, I hear them fly And follow their flight, my ears bemused As flapping and swishing, they soar to the sky.

No more, to see the wild woodbine, or dainty violet fair The more I smell their sweet perfume In the cool, night air.

No more, to see my darling child With tousled, golden hair Yet still, I hear his gentle voice As he whispers a childish prayer.

He showers me with all his love He puts his trust in me.

Dear Lord, I’ll do as he does, And put my trust in Thee.

3

Salute to Spring

Oh, this torpid winter, so cold and drear.

Ah, blessed hibernation, until Spring is here.

To slumber in the black depths, dreamless and remote.

To escape one’s own memory drown anxiety in hope, that Spring will soon be here.

When stately trees awakening From their winter sleep.

Stretch forth their verdant arms, To where the sun doth keep A watery eye upon the earth And banish apathy.

An invigorating season Keeps her promise of rebirth.

4

Forty Winks

He settles in the armchair, His fingers intertwined.

Eyes look a little dreamy, As if he’s hypnotised.

"Not sleepy, only resting," At least that’s what he says.

His head is slowly drooping, ‘Til chin on chest he lays.

Three hours or more recumbent, All tension swept aside.

With face and form relaxing, On higher plains he flies.

As slowly, gently sliding, In soporific thrust.

‘Til cherub-like residing, In the arms of Morpheus.

Then waking, yawns and stretches, In sedated tones he said.

"Not sleeping, only resting, Feeling tired, I’m off to bed!"

5

Candlelight

Flames flickering, ever changing.

Tongue-like in their aspirations.

Licking the bowels Of the cavernous chimney.

A sudden downdraught The lighted candle's flame Darts sideways.

Almost quenching in its waxen well.

Yet in a thrice, again leaps high.

Its molten innards Spilling o'er To dribble and set In stalactite image To the candles virgin side.

6

Shadows of the Past In twining light of fire and candle An old man sits in meditation.

Oblivious to all about him.

Yet, in those dim illuminations He sees his bent and meagre form As a long, lean shadow, on an empty wall.

He's a youth again, a young man striding.

Then Martha from the shadows came, smiling.

Her hair the colour of ripened corn Her fragrance permeating the eerie room.

Her arms outstretched in supplication Her eyes alight with expectation.

The vision fades, his eyes grow did.

The silence like a cloak enfolds him.

Candles quenched and fires gutted.

Now he sits in total darkness All thoughts of life on earth abandoned.

One final breath, life's bond is broken.

His body naught but a worn-out token.

Slumping in the old sugรกn.

Scatters dust to dust Upon the old, flagged floor.

7

Winter

The trees like unfrocked Sentinels stand.

With gaunt arms raised In accusation, unforgiving and in turn, are frowned upon by sombre and unfriendly skies.

The river encased in a crystal prison.

Lays bereft of all motion and rhythm.

A solitary willow Stands drooping and weeping.

Mourning the river's Muted, magical murmuring.

Then transformation overnight.

I woke to find a world of white.

All nature lay without a sound.

Wrapped in winter's snowy shroud.

8

Ode to a Butterfly

Who knows what beauty lies within?

That quaint, encrusted form.

Attached to stem with silken thread Awaits to be reborn.

From a long sojourn in darkness Transient days fulfil From your chrysalis entombment Burgeoning beauty thrills.

You rest awhile, your veins to fill.

Behold! Those wings so fair.

Pristine, you flutter skywards.

To embrace the summer air.

9

A Lunar Landscape A barren land where trees once leafed.

Bones scattered, blanched, that once were sheep.

A stony, monumental mountain, Stark against the skyline Waiting‌.

One dare not pass without a token stone to lay or prayer that's spoken.

Loudly that the dead might hear, So solitary is their bier.

Banks like phantom ghosts of ages.

Whittled away by nature's rages.

Forming sculptured, eerie spires, All reaching upwards to the sky.

10

The Sea from a Porthole A white, laced shawl draped carelessly, on each green and billowy wave.

So delicately patterned, no earthly hands could shape.

Oh, to define the complexity, they rest, but not for long.

For disrupted by another wave, unravels and is gone.

Yet, as the last thread disappears, busy hands beneath the sea.

With unseen hook and foamy lace, begin again, new patterns trace.

Creating yet another shawl, more beautiful to take its place.

11

The Faeries

Through the chink in my bedroom curtains.

Shone the Moon's bright, silvery rays.

And I knew if I looked at the star-spangled sky.

The World would be bright as day.

And there at my casement window A beautiful vision appeared.

Of a Fairy Queen and her Court in green And Elves with pointed ears.

They came in through the window 'Cause the door was not allowed.

Their eyes were bright As the stars that shine.

Her dress, it was like a cloud.

They slid to the end of a silvery beam And played in the pale moonlight.

And I watch from my hide 'Neath the counterpane As they danced throughout the night.

Then I silently crept from my warm, little bed The better to see them dance.

And the Fairy Queen and her Court in green And the Elves I saw at a glance.

But they saw me too And their dancing stopped.

As they gazed at me in dismay, Then with wings as light as gossamer They quickly flew away.

12

Childhood Memories

There is something about the hum of a bee Or the sound of the cuckoo's call.

That stirs in my memory, deep and long.

Those halcyon days of childhood.

Of daisy chains and hide and seek.

Mud pies and climbing trees To survey our Kingdom and the next Beyond the garden fence.

A tree became our castle; a brush became a horse.

A cardboard box, a King's crown.

We would own the World, of course!

The old tin bath, was a ship today.

And we sailed on the Spanish Maine.

Tomorrow, we'd fly in the sky above For it would be an aeroplane.

The tall green grass, was our jungle The cat a tiger wild.

The old sand pit, a desert; the flowers, a paradise.

We'd be the Sheik of Araby Captain Hook or Peter Pan. Amy Johnson, Florence Nightingale Mickey Mouse or Desperate Dan. Imagination knew no bounds As flights of fancy took us From Switzerland to Italy.

From Africa to China.

My eyes grow dim, the summers fade The cuckoo's call departs But those joyous, carefree, childhood days Will live forever in my heart.

13

No Hope

If time befriended man, and man likewise.

If sorrow knew nought of this world or thee.

Had we not supped from the bitter cup of life We'd now suffer not, the pangs of misery.

Through what seems aeons of our time Man has lost his true identity To a wearisome and troubled world of strife.

He loves, he hates, he fears and still, he seeks Eternal Life.

Is there no hope at all?

For the whole human race.

Is there nothing we can do?

To staunch or placate.

The ever-constant flowing Of human blood and tears.

The killing and the wounding.

The hatred and the fears.

Is there no hope of ending?

The whole World's misery Or must the tears and blood be shed For all ETERNITY.

14

The Wind

As a child I listened to the wind, and now I'm three score more.

Still I hear that same old voice, whispering past my door.

"Where do you go wind, where have you been?"

I listen intently, as the wind answers me.

"Oh! I've travelled the whole world, and many the sights I've seen.

Of history through the ages, I am here since time began.

I saw the making of the Universe, I've witnessed miracle of Man. I saw Cain assaulting Able and Adam seduced by Eve. I held my breath as Jesus, calmed the Lakes of Galilee.

I caressed the brow of Jesus, as he hung upon the cross.

I helped tumble down their city, He, was our greatest loss.

Many a ship I've driven, to a rocky, watery grave.

Whipping the sea to frenzy, drowning sailors brave.

I saw the doomed Titanic, caused the wreck of the Hesperus.

Becalmed the seas when the Mariner, shot dead the Albatross.

While Nero sat there fiddling, I fanned the flames of Rome.

I cried with the dead and dying, on the fields of Bannockburn.

I've aroused the curiosity, in some who've tried to paint me.

Like Titian, Rembrandt, Degas, best of all, the great DaVinci.

I've wandered through the ruins, of glorious ancient Greece.

I've whispered to the characters, in Tolstoy's "War and Peace."

Watched the war in Vietnam, the troubles in Ireland too.

Swept up the Nile and Amazon, over the peaks of Kathmandu.

Blown warm across the Sahara, seen "white" sell "black" as slaves.

Witnessed untold acts of horror, which Man inflicts on Man. Yet, let me add one fraction to their drudgery and shame.

Then‌ Mankind, in voice united, curse my very name."

15

The Legend of the Cottage Ruin

Whilst I was out a walking, quite suddenly by chance I came across the ruins, of a quaint old house.

The Ivy and the Lichen crept upon the wall.

The windows were all broken, and there was no door at all.

I hear naught but the scurry of hungry mice And the hoot of a Barnyard Owl. The twitterings of a restless bird And the bark of a Fox on the prowl.

What ghostly footsteps haunt thy hearth At night, when all is quiet And the moon doth cast her shining beams O'er the old, flagged floor.

Did the feet of young folk dance there?

Or the old folk kneel in prayer, Whilst bright flames cast their shadows On walls and dressered ware.

I gazed and gazed, then did recall, That this was once my home.

Then clearly, I remembered Those days of long ago.

Poor days but happy days, Shared by sisters and brothers.

The greatest riches we possessed Was our love for one another.

Yet, while fond parents watched us, The years unnoticed passed.

Now time was stealing day by day, Their children from their clasp.

The boys grew into fine young men, Tall and full of grace.

The girls were comely maidens,

16

Raven haired and fair of face.

The parents knelt for the last time With their flock in silent prayer.

Around them some were weeping, More, too moved for even tears.

That morn' they left their parents' home, Their fortunes for to seek.

Da wrung his hands, Ma cried her fill, Not one of us could speak.

Some made it good and settled down, On some far distant shore.

Our mother wrote quite often But mostly to implore.

We said we'd visit someday, But the years unnoticed passed.

My Ma was always pining, And Da, he never laughed.

Then one day, Ma just gave up hope And quietly passed away My Da so broken, died the following day.

The two were buried side by side, Within their own stone walls.

Perchance their children, someday soon.

Would make that promised call.

The funeral was a sad affair, The neighbours walked behind.

They thought it odd, no kin were there.

Then a stranger stepped in line.

Yet no one asked me of my name, Or from whence I had come.

How could I have told them, Without shame, I was their son.

Then suddenly I woke to find Myself chilled to the bone.

Laying beneath a Canadian tree.

I'd been dreaming of my home.

17

Some strange force within me, Made me contact my sisters and brothers.

Arranging to meet in our old home town.

To visit our father and mother.

Arriving at the village square, The church bell it did chime.

We felt sick with apprehension.

As the mourners walked in line.

Two coffins on their shoulders.

Grim-faced, all dressed in black.

We dared not ask the question, Who or how, we just turned back.

We felt we must have one last look.

At the home we once had known.

So, we clambered over ditches.

Caring not, for our fine clothes.

The stile is somewhere over there, Beyond the old stone mill.

And then the cottage came to view.

And someone lived there still.

We saw the smoke from an old turf fire As it spiralled soft and white.

Above the well thatched rooftop And the windows sparkled bright.

We pushed the old gate open Advancing up the path.

Still I feared, what I had dreamed Had really come to pass.

Finally, we reached the door And flung it open wide.

And Ma and Da were hugging us.

How we both laughed and cried.

We gathered round the old hearth As we did in days gone by.

And Da, he put the kettle on Ma had made an apple pie.

18

We all sat round the table And Da, he said the prayers.

Once again, we were his children, He thanked God that we were there.

We spent a long and happy month.

And now the time had come For me to make my mind up.

And speak to my parents alone.

I asked if they would have me stay I was their eldest son.

I had no plans, I'd made no match, My time it was my own.

I always was too busy To bother with the girls.

"Sure, you always had a soft spot, for Amy with the curls."

Da winked his eye, “Sure Amy’s there, She played the waiting game, To leave her longer on the shelf, would be a crying shame."

So, I washed my face, combed my hair And brushed my trousers down.

Then out the door, and over the hill To meet my Amy Brown.

I met her coming from the well, She let the bucket fall.

She ran into my open arms And nothing mattered at all.

"Will you be my own sweet bride," I whispered in her ear.

"Who else do you think I've waited for, so many a weary year."

Before our family took their leave Sweet Amy and I were wed.

We spent our honeymoon at home And never got out of bed.

19

Now that was many a year ago And our children equal four.

If we had owned a larger house We would have had four more.

In the evenings oft' I tell them Why I stayed with Ma and Pa And how my Amy waited And 'cause of that, well here they are.

In serious mood, I often think Of when I'm old and grey, I pray the lesson I was taught Will make one want to stay.

20

Summer Circles

Blue skies, magnificent trees Still waters, mirrored deep.

Flowers with faces, turned to the sun, Kissing each and every one.

The grass stirs, from a gentle breeze Little sound, save that of bees.

The children play, the day is long, Then homeward bound, as night doth come.

The majestic moon, sails on high Amid twinkling stars, scattered o'er the sky.

The birds are winging their way to rest The young ones nestle, 'neath soft downy breast.

Then all once more, is quiet, until, The early sunrise o'er sleepy hills.

The moon's reign is over, She abdicates.

Birds begin singing, A new dawn awakes.

21

The Birth of Ireland

A green-veiled misty maiden Arose from the seas of strife.

And she reached out For the harp of Heaven And plucked At the strings of Life.

And the songs she sang Were those of Love, Of Wit and Inspiration.

And He looked down From the skies above And Blessed His own Creation.

Then fame and fortune Smiled upon Her face And fitted Her With beauty And with Grace.

22

Fireside Reverie

Three pairs of knees around the fire encroach.

Two vacant minds with eyes to match.

Stare unseeing.

Disbelieving.

Tales I tell them of dark caverns, dragons tall.

Who dares set foot in its iniquitous den.

Ah..now I see Mount Etna or a firework display?

A kaleidoscope of colour sparks fly every way.

Out toward bare knees and burned shin bones.

To make their owners scurry back.

With many a shriek and moan.

23

Window Gazing Was it a murderous struggle Or perhaps a sweet embrace.

One could never, ever be sure In one brief and fleeting glance.

Now a harsh light No shade or screen across the window showed.

A solitary figure in forlorn silhouette, Hunched over a table of bare boards.

Then out in the country and the railway men's huts.

As a child I wished to live in one But now I've grown up!

24

Ireland

Ah! Would that I were a pebble on the strand.

Just one of millions resting on your shores.

Or a minute grain in a shifting vale of sand.

Than a nameless face on a foreign land asthore.

Ah! Would that I were a particle of dust Floating gently on the early morning's ray.

To settle on your sleeping form perchance to kiss your tears away.

Ah! Would that I were a fleck of foam.

On each turbulent sea-green wave.

Which hastens with tremulous joy untold.

Your lovely shores to embrace.

So, if Heaven boasts no beauty.

Like this little isle so fair This verdant, demi-Paradise, I'll have no wish to go there.

25

Country Scenes from a Train Green fields and golden pass leisurely by.

Sunlight and shadow mackerel clouds in the sky.

The deep purple heather on mountain and fell.

The misty blue outline of far distant hills.

From thicket of brown a skylark arose.

We know it is trilling as higher it goes.

Heavens reflection in quiet pools of blue.

Cattle are gathered 'neath shade of the Yew. The pale beams of evening their long shadows cast.

O'er thatch cottage and ruin monuments to the past.

The train it goes faster we race into night.

The cows lay contented, the horses take fright.

Out from its cover a startled hare leaps.

As stars in the sky from their blue mantle peep.

As we gather up speed we go flashing by.

And the country recedes from our wandering eye.

26

A Mine Disaster A thunderous roar, air thick with dust.

Swirling, choking, their life-line cut.

So swift and sudden, disaster occurred.

Enshrined in a coal-faced sepulchre.

Fathers and sons in a damp, dark mine Pray to God in his mercy for an end sublime.

Wives and mothers gently weep.

As loved ones depart in chambers deep.

Their skin to bleach 'neath sweat and dirt.

Their bones to wax with coal and earth.

No coffin or habit their bodies entwine.

In deep seclusion lay fossilised.

So tread softly stranger where'er you meet A disused mine-shaft shuttered steep.

Somewhere, far beneath your feet, Men entombed, do gently sleep.

27

The City

The city is like a hungry wolf, the people are its prey.

It swallows them up in its concrete jaws, tens of thousands every day.

The buildings go up, block by block it's spreading inch by inch, beyond the far suburbia, beyond the green belt's limits.

The smoke goes up, the smog comes down, it pollutes the air, it poisons the town.

The city's lights are brightest, its back street dark by far, than the darkest night in winter, that's bereft of moon and stars.

It's teaming with the rich folks, the poor ones live there too, in rat infested tenements, no wonder they are blue.

Men devoured by factory walls, the work from nine to five, the hooter blows, it spews them out, surprised to be alive.

The politicians argue in their Parliaments and Dรกil, to make cities even bigger, larger buildings, higher walls.

28

It's like a concrete jungle, the noise it deafens me.

To go into the country is like putting out to sea.

Though some would never leave it, they love the excitement, noise and strife, the galleries and museums, exhibitions and first nights.

Well you can have it all for me, The West End and bright lights.

You can take St. Stephen's Green and O'Connell's Bridge, give me the quiet country life.

29

Seek No Solace

Come, let us be done with this wicked world.

This farcical charade that's known as life.

We have no call to linger here.

Let us fly to higher regions.

Seek out a new solitude.

In some far, distant planet.

As yet unknown.

Nay, tarry awhile and think.

'Tis not this world which lays at fault.

But merely the people in it.

30

Ancient Flames

Flames flickering, ever changing.

Tongue-like in their aspirations.

Licking the bowels, of the cavernous chimney.

A sudden down-draught.

The lighted candle's flame darts sideways.

Almost quenching in it's waxen well.

Yet in a thrice, again leaps high.

Its molten innards Spilling o'er.

To dribble and set In stalactite image, to the candles virgin side.

31

Home of My Childhood

Our village was known as the "British," it lay at the top of the hill.

And though houses have crumbled, and people have gone, The memories linger there still.

The village was built for the miners, their cottages stood row on row And although they were poor, you could eat off their floors And the men worked the pits, down below.

They were really great people, those miners.

Kind-hearted, warm, gentle and black.

Trouble shared, trouble halved they would tell you, They'd give you the shirt off their backs.

Aye, though oft' times they were broke, they enjoyed a good joke.

The women all washed on a Monday, Every Cot' had a piano, be it tall, short or narrow And they went twice to Chapel on Sundays.

There was Muriel, Christine and Morfydd, Our Joan, Ivor, Billy and Gwen.

There is Kate whom I love And many more now above And Lillian and Gwynth and Ben.

There was old Mrs Mags and her daughter, They delivered fresh milk to your door.

"A pint or a quart?" They would ask with a smile And they'd be there come rain, hail or snow.

I could name many others who live there.

They laughed, cried, laboured and loved.

In a death they all mourned, in birth they rejoiced And sang hymns to His praises above.

32

On vacation we made for the mountain, The fern and the mossy green dell.

Left behind were the miners' cottages And Ty-Ffynnon, the house of the well.

Meandering down through the valley, A stream tripped and fell on its way.

As a pool it now stands, dammed by our busy hands, Reflecting God's heavenly rays.

Picking berries that grew on the hillside, We'd eat them, then tackle the Slip.

Dangers grew deeper as we lay across sleepers, Dropping stones through the cracks, down the pit.

Those were the days, dead and gone sad to say And those people, you'll ne'er see their likes.

Yet while I'll remember, there'll be no September, 'Twill remain the springtime of my life.

The hearts of the people still dwell there, So few were prepared to leave.

Now scattered north, south, east and westward, Yet some, for the British still grieve.

I went back to the British last summer, Where I walked, houses lay there at rest.

On the hillside I paced, Doors, walls, footpaths I traced, As they lay 'neath the earth's silent breast.

33

No Escape The Angel of Death walks side by side, With you and me and young and old And rich and poor alike.

There simply is no way on earth That Death can be denied.

Only the sorely, sickened soul.

Would welcome her with ease.

But until their allotted time has come.

She will ignore their pleas.

Till then and only then will Death The all consuming Arms outstretched Embrace them silently.

34

Time

Count every second of every hour, of every passing day.

Try putting them to some good use, Don't waste your time away.

Every day of every week, of every passing year Don't let it pass you by Without bringing some good cheer.

Never be the cause of tears.

For if you do, you'll surely rue When Father Time appears.

For the sands of time run out my friend As time outlasts us all.

So, make the very most of life Before the Final Call.

35