There's been so many disappointments lately -
England flunking the world cup,
Murray tamely surrendering Wimbledon,
missing the share price peak;
the poppy seed I sowed along the road didn't grow
and the meconopsis seedlings that I watched for months
so laboriously struggling for life all died;
sad sod, stick to the usual disappointment -
that the women I fancy never fancy me.

Because I was discontented with my wife
and you are beautiful, I fell in love
thinking that love alone was valuable
and worth recall, ready to abandon all
for this unsought intensity of life.

With more to lose, cautious for comfort's sake,
you fit your feeling to a routine shape,
lengthening winter's coldness into spring
as if in doing so you hope to win
a victory over passion for the mass.

Together we might find a compromise,
on frosty nights or in a morning bed
and read, in meeting one another's eyes,
the story of the life we might have led.

Shy perhaps and maybe needing extra time before appearing in public?
Or else a little backward, not deserving any censure or comment?
Possibly less innocent and rather more diabolic,
cunningly preparing some dramatic entrance?
Just hesitantly waiting the perfect moment?
How explain to impatient gardeners
the lethargy of seeds?

Leaving, I gave my love a rose,
fragrant, royal, red,
saying "Take this flower from him
you kept from your bed."
Glaring at me, proud in parting,
sharply she said

"What am I to do with it?
Why give me this?
I don't want your gestures now
or farewell kiss."
Just as I'd guessed she would -
a chance not to miss.

"Just let it die," I said,
"wither and die.
Don't ever water it,
cover the sky.
Just like my love for you,
just let it die."

Turning she left me with her smile,
dazzling, royal, red,
saying "I shall keep your flower
though love has fled.
Having no root it must of course
quickly be dead."

Technology changes a lot;
old skills can be forgot;
blacksmiths are few
but the adage is true -
strike while the iron's hot.

Why so sombre in the graveyard?
Why the wall around the ground?
What's so precious there to safeguard?
Not the contents of each mound !

Flesh and skin have gone forever;
bones are mostly all that's left;
personality is never
in a body life bereft.

Why then value stone and marble,
names and dates that gather moss,
cliched phrases, words that garble
honest pangs of pain and loss?

Back in former times, I grant you,
grave and headstone spun a thread
anchoring hope that souls continue,
mooring memories of the dead.

Now with photos, film and videos
all the good times glow again;
loved ones live in aching cameos,
revel in "Remember when . . . ."

Knowing life is only temporary
(life eternal can't be willed)
surely death is not a tragedy
(lest a life is unfulfilled).

So no need to mourn a person;
rather care for loved ones left;
loss and loneliness are certain;
loss however is not theft.

What remains is new life growing,
birds and badgers on the tomb,
procreation blindly flowing,
babies forming in the womb.

And if souls can really see us,
let them watch the kids at play -
skipping, squabbling, running raucous
round the graveyard all the day.

Don't let's have our ideas hidebound,
let's help youthful vigour thrive;
change the graveyard to a playground -
bring the cemetery alive.

Relationships are really funny;
we don't all fit like hand in glove.
Why will some women do for money
what others won't do for love?