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.

Oceanography

What does a little wave know
of the ocean's depth below?
Is it only a passing breeze
disturbs the surface so?

When the sea is always calm
and we have no fear of harm,
its sparkling face is there to please,
its quietness is its charm.

But is there something moving,
too deep for certain proving,
a turbulence that might just seize
the chance of life improving?

And if some turmoil under
the surface tears asunder
that placid and untroubled ease,
then hear the ocean's thunder.

For what if the sea-bed shakes
and the ocean mid-ridge quakes?
Must pulsing lava always freeze
and fail what it undertakes?

New land was the objective,
new sights, a new perspective,
relationships as remedies
against the old invective.

What does a little wave show
of emotion's depth below?
Are we no longer enemies
as the parting breezes blow?

But far too late to save me,
a gesture to enslave me,
in the carpark by the alder trees -
that little wave you gave me !

The mystery of female genitals

"I saw her knickers !"
"Liar."
"Yes, I did."
"What colour then ?"
"They're white."
They always were.
It was a time of shortage after the war.
We sat cross-legged upon a wooden floor
and shivered in the cold assembly hall,
whispering behind our guarding hands that hid
our guilty curiosity, two small
boys nudging each other to puberty.
The lady teacher demonstrating dance
paused to adjust her skirt. We knew of course
that girls lacked willies; what they had instead
seemed nothing much. We hardly gave a glance
at their groins. Women though had breasts which led
us to suppose there might be something rare
behind the veil of their underwear.

Incident at the Tate

" he'll certainly die and then I'll go to prison "
Certainly that would-be murderer of a little boy
was obsessed by the idea of killing a child.
But sane enough to know that he would live
after his conviction rather than be executed.
But what if that teenager had known for certain
that he would be put to death for the murder
instead of living a cared-for life in prison ?
Would the death penalty have been a deterrent ?

Love that loses
never chooses,
lets itself be led

with kind smiles
or by lust's wiles
into trouble's bed.