Excuse my lust, unseemly at my age;
laugh if you must at someone not so sage
stirred by the bud and blossom of your youth,
spurred by your character's potential growth
watering dry wrinkles with summer rain,
promising pleasure but threatening pain,
colouring complexion, seeping through skin,
unfolding fantasies, reviving sin,
revivifying what had seemed dead -
a rescued life, in bed just in my head.

Seascape

I saw you twenty minutes ago
from the road on the hill.
Your face was not so deeply wrinkled then,
nor your manner so cold.
From the subdued land
you, the older sister seemed quite friendly;
the white waves were a twinkle in your eye
and the sun sliding between the clouds
brought young colours, greens and blues,
to your complexion.

At your footstool now
the grey waves, hostile,
show your strength and power.
Superior with your knowledge
of shores I shall not see,
of depths I cannot know,
your lonely beauty spurns me.

But I have seen you calm,
playful at my feet
like some small animal,
wiping my footprint from the sand
with a single teasing flourish of your hand.

There was a young lady of Lingfield
lay out in the sun with a windshield:
"It tans me a lot
and I don't get too hot"
she claimed. All the same all her skin peeled.

First overland trip

Stamps and coins earn scant respect;
train numbers even less;
antiques and paintings just reflect
the wealth that some possess.

Birds' eggs and butterflies demand
some knowledge of wildlife;
birdwatchers' lists of species scanned
need patience and some strife.

Most women though are quite content
with house and family,
collecting things to ornament
the home domestically.

And men collect their status toys -
computer, car and phone,
while mothers joke "Men will be boys."
admiring what they own.

Collecting things is harmless fun
and, if it gives you pleasur
no need to denigrate some-one
who that way fills his leisure.

But what of those who won't conform,
true overlanders free
from tyranny's accepted norm
oppressing you and me?

Hard drinking, smoking rockers, fierce
with tatoo on one shoulder
and banded biceps, faces pierced,
ignoring getting older.

It's not so much how high you fly
that differs you from me;
it's more I think you like to lie
of how things seem to be.

You too collect a sort of thing
despite your kicking traces
when in the bar you always fling
in names of foreign places.

You also lead a routine life
along a beaten track
without a mortgage, kids and wife
but camp to camp and back.

Eventually you'll settle down,
an owner not a guest,
and change your smile for a frown
collecting money like the rest.

Better men than I
have lived and died
and little I can do
to emulate the few
whose names survive.
What matter then
my life or death,
my learning or my pride?

Is there no fever in your blood ?
Will you not sail upon the flood ?
Do you prefer to act the play
miming the words that others say ?

You guard your silence all the day;
you will not give yourself away.
Is there no fever in your blood ?

Anchored you rest within the bay
but near the shore no dolphins play;
will you not sail upon the flood ?

Nothing said, so much to say;
how can I talk from so far away ?
Is there no fever in your blood ?

Better to dance than kneel and pray
before the waters ebb away.
Will you not sail upon the flood ?

Must the fruit ripen to decay ?
Must all the colours fade to grey ?
Is there no fever in your blood ?
Will you not sail upon the flood ?

Nothing happened, only dreams;
everything is as it seems;
heart at ease and mind at rest
with never thought of mouth or breast.

So go your way and leave me mine;
I'm not the one to mope and pine.
The days glide by, weeks disappear;
I manage well without you near.

Things aren't too bad; they could be worse;
I think I'll write myself a verse.