We had rented the villa

Back in the Spring,

It was painted vanilla,

It kinda had ‘bling’. 

It was high Summer,

When we arrived,

The trip there was a bummer,

It was a very long drive.

The building, imposing,

Sat four square in its plot,

Smaller flats juxtaposing,

Magnified it a lot.

And yet, towering above it

Was a giant cloud,bank,

And I have to admit

That the building shrank. 

Like giant, white pillows,

It spread over the sky,

Like a wave surges and billows,

As wide as it was high.

© Caro Field July 2017

Photo credit: +Malay Nandy

https://plus.google.com/photos/photo/101638056787085783036/6443672295540310706?icm=false&sqid=115643641182595311608&ssid=72be7bb2-e8af-4722-bc1e-627ce6ddac2d

Love is just a four-letter word, 

Like long, or like, or wish, or hope, 

Yet, though it may seem quite absurd, 

It encircles the heart with silken rope, 

And makes each day seem bright and new, 

With myriad wonderful things to do. 

No hill too steep, no road too far, 

To be precisely where YOU are! 

You, the lover, you the muse, 

You the beautiful dancing shoes 

That sashay into the mind, the brain, 

And linger, like a sweet refrain, 

That needs discovering again and again….  
Love is just a four letter word, 
Like sing, or grin, or feel or hold,

 Yet it’s the icing on the cake, 

The greatest story ever told. 

It’s the fizz in a fine champagne, 

It’s the huff and puff of an old steam train, 

The breeze breathing gently on your face, 

The intricacies of a piece of lace, 

It’s euphoria, it’s a dream, 

It’s the cherry on top of a large ice cream, 

It’s a name you can’t ignore, 

If I’m the apple, your its core, 

It’s a megatastic superstore. 

Love is just a four-letter word, 

But oh, it is so much MORE 

© Caro Ness 2014
 

I wrote this poem for the extraordinary woman who became my wife. We were married in 2014 and we published this poem on the back page of our wedding service sheet because it is Anita-Clare’s favourite. It is a small recompense for my great good fortune in finding the love of my life but nevertheless, it is a  sincere and passionate declaration of my love for her. 

The estuary unfurled, 

Like a ribbon of opportunity, 

Each ripple, 

Carrying with it, 

My limitless future. 

Walking along the river bank,

Not only can I see 

The other shore, 

Inviting, welcoming, 

But I feel the pull 

Of the ocean beyond. 

That frighteningly large 

Expanse of water, 

Cyan under an azure sky, 

That symbolises hope, 

Expectation, opportunity. 

Life, in a nutshell. 

© Caro Field July 2017
https://plus.google.com/photos/photo/101638056787085783036/6442244304504517890?iem=4&gpawv=1&hl=en-GB

2017 is the year of the beard, 

I cannot bear them, and that mIght seem quite weird, 

But you’re never quite sure of what lies underneath, 

Or you run the risk of hairs getting stuck in your teeth. 

Short men think a beard will make them look  tall, 

But I’m afraid that, dear reader, like lemmings they fall! 

A beard just disguises a very weak chin, 

Or a nose that is Roman, too large or too thin. 

There are one or two people that facial hair will suit, 

They’re usually swarthy or even hirsute. 

So why the big fashion? Why the big fuss? 

Why do the handsome clean-shaven think a beard is a must? 

Are men all just vain or are they razor-averse,

Because growing a beard will  just make them look worse.

I’m no fan of the goatee or of the Van Dyke,

A moustache or a beard is not something I like.

© Caro Field July 2017

Photo of Van Dyke beard found on Ŵikipedia

The barley fields are golden ever,

The willows weep, the aspens shiver,

By the swift, fast-flowing river,

On the road to Camelot,

I glimpse the walls, the four grey towers,

A sense of gloom quite overpowers,

And a solitude that just devours,

When I set eyes upon Shallot.

I push the heavy, oaken door,

Petals line the marble floor,

I feel like I’ve been here before,

In the Castle of Shallot.

The silence echoes and it’s eerie,

It envelops those who, travel weary,

Find the Castle somewhat dreary,

This Castle of Shallot.

I climb the gently curving stairs,

Their grace takes me so unawares,

None before these quite compares,

To the stairwells at Shallot,

As I ascend through the sombre gloom,

I come across a tiny room,

And in it sits the very loom,

Of the Lady of Shallot.

It was here that she would sit and weave,

And she never, ever took her leave,

She wove steadily, without reprieve,

The tales of Camelot.

She wove and wove, she knew not why,

But if she stopped, she’d surely die,

So to stave off death, she did comply,

The Lady of Shallot.

She wove her web of myth and mystery,

Of Arthur’s world, and of its history,

How his court was almost consistory,

The court at Camelot.

But she wove whilst looking in a mirror,

 It somehow made her visions clearer,

And all emotions even dearer,

For the Lady of Shallot.

But one day, out rode Sir Lancelot,

On his fine steed, at a steady trot,

And our careful weaver clean forgot,

The Lady of Shallot.

As she looked on him, the mirror cracked,

And she knew that she could not retract,

She’d sealed her fate, and that’s a fact,

The Lady of Shallot.

And so she dressed in purest white,

And in her boat did she alight,

Resigning herself to her fearful plight,

The Lady of Shallot.

She lay down in that small, slim boat,

And calmly, set herself afloat,

Chanting the dirge she knew by rote,

The Lady of Shallot.

Those on shore all watched her go,

Caught fast in the raging tidal flow,

Trying hard not to let their feelings show,

For the Lady Of Shallot.

And as she floated, she slowly died,

And all who saw her mourned and cried,

For the Lady of Shallot.

© Caro Field July 2017

The barley fields are golden ever,

The willows weep, the aspens shiver,

By the swift, fast-flowing river,

On the road to Camelot,

I glimpse the walls, the four grey towers,

A sense of gloom quite overpowers,

And a solitude that just devours,

When I set eyes upon Shallot.

I push the heavy, oaken door,

Petals line the marble floor,

I feel like I’ve been here before,

In the Castle of Shallot.

The silence echoes and it’s eerie,

It envelops those wtravel weary,

Find the Castle somewhat dreary,

This Castle of Shallot.
I climb the gently curving stairs, 

Their grace takes me so unawares,

None before these quite compares,

To the stairwells at Shallot,

As I ascend through the sombre gloom,

I come across a tiny room,

And in it sits the very loom,

Of the Lady of Shallot.

It was here that she would sit and weave,

And she never took her leave,

She wove steadily, without reprieve,

The tales of Camelot.

She wove and wove, she knew not why,

But if she stopped, she’d surely die,

So to stave off death, she did comply,

The Lady of Shallot.

She wove her web of myth and mystery,

Of Arthur’s world, and its history,

How his court was almost consistory,

The court at Camelot.

But she wove whilst looking in a mirror,

 It somehow made her visions clearer,

And all emotions even dearer,

For the Lady of Shallot.

But one day, out rode Sir Lancelot,

On his fine steed, at a steady trot,

And our careful weaver clean forgot,

The Lady of Shallot.

As she looked on him, the mirror cracked,

And she knew that she could not retract,

She’d sealed her fate, and that’s a fact,

The Lady of Shallot.

And so she dressed in purest white,

And in her boat did she alight,

Resigning herself to her fearful plight,

The Lady of Shallot.

She lay down in that small, small boat,

And calmly, set herself afloat,

Chanting the dirge she knew by rote,

The Lady of Shallot.

Those on shore all watched her go,

Caught fast in the raging tidal flow,

Trying hard not to let their feelings show,

For the Lady Of Shallot.

And as she floated, she slowly died,

And all who saw her mourned and cried,

For the Lady of Shallot.

© Caro Field July 2017

The barley fields are golden ever,

The willows weep, the aspens shiver,

By the swift, fast-flowing river,

On the road to Camelot,

I glimpse the walls, the four grey towers,

A sense of gloom quite overpowers,

And a solitude that just devours,

When I set eyes upon Shallot.
I push the heavy, oaken door,
Petals line the marble floor,

I feel like I’ve been here before,

In the Castle of Shallot.

The silence echoes and it’s eerie,

It envelops those wtravel weary,

Find the Castle somewhat dreary,

This Castle of Shallot.
I climb the gently curving stairs,
Their grace takes me so unawares,

None before these quite compares,

To the stairwells at Shallot,

As I ascend through the sombre gloom,

I come across a tiny room,

And in it sits the very loom,

Of the Lady of Shallot.
It was here that she would sit and weave,
And she never took her leave,

She wove steadily, without reprieve,

The tales of Camelot.

She wove and wove, she knew not why,

But if she stopped, she’d surely die,

So to stave off death, she did comply,

The Lady of Shallot.
She wove her web of myth and mystery,
Of Arthur’s world, and its history,

How his court was almost consistory,

The court at Camelot.

But she wove whilst looking in a mirror,

 It somehow made her visions clearer,

And all emotions even dearer,

For the Lady of Shallot.
But one day, out rode Sir Lancelot,
On his fine steed, at a steady trot,

And our careful weaver clean forgot,

The Lady of Shallot.

As she looked on him, the mirror cracked,

And she knew that she could not retract,

She’d sealed her fate, and that’s a fact,

The Lady of Shallot.
And so she dressed in purest white,
And in her boat did she alight,

Resigning herself to her fearful plight,

The Lady of Shallot.

She lay down in that small, small boat,

And calmly, set herself afloat,

Chanting the dirge she knew by rote,

The Lady of Shallot.
Those on shore all watched her go,
Caught fast in the raging tidal flow,

Trying hard not to let their feelings show,

For the Lady Of Shallot.

And as she floated, she slowly died,

And all who saw her mourned and cried,

For the Lady of Shallot.

© Caro Field July 2017

The barley fields are golden ever,

The willows weep, the aspens shiver

By the swift, fast-flowing river

On the road to Camelot,

I glimpse the walls, the four grey towers,

A sense of gloom quite overpowers,

And a solitude that just devours,

When I set eyes upon Shallot.
I push the heavy, oaken door,
Petals line the marble floor,

I feel like I’ve been here before,

In the Castle of Shallot.

The silence echoes and it’s eerie,

It envelops those wtravel weary,

Find the Castle somewhat dreary,

This Castle of Shallot.
I climb the gently curving stairs, 

Their grace takes me so unawares,

None before these quite compares,

To the stairwells at Shallot,

As I ascend through the sombre gloom, 

I come across a tiny room,

And in it sits the very loom,

Of the Lady of Shallot.
It was here that she would sit and weave,

And she never took her leave,

She wove steadily, without reprieve,

The tales of Camelot.

She wove and wove, she knew not why,

But if she stopped, she’d surely die,

So to stave off death, she did comply,

The Lady of Shallot.
She wove her web of myth and mystery,

Of Arthur’s world, and its history,

How his court was almost consistory,

The court at Camelot.

But she wove whilst looking in a mirror,

 It somehow made her visions clearer,

And all emotions even dearer.

For the Lady of Shallot.
But one day, out rode Sir Lancelot,

On his fine steed, at a steady trot,

And our careful weaver clean forgot,

The Lady of Shallot.

As she looked on him, the mirror cracked,

And she knew that she could not retract,

She’d sealed her fate, and that’s a fact,

The Lady of Shallot.
And so she dressed in purest white,

And in her boat did she alight,

Resigning herself to her fearful plight,

The Lady of Shallot.

She lay down in that small, small boat,

And calmly, set herself afloat,

Chanting the dirge she knew by rote,

The Lady of Shallot.
Those on shore all watched her go,

Caught fast in the raging tidal flow,

Trying hard not to let their feelings show,

For the Lady Of Shallot.

And as she floated, she slowly died,

And all who saw her mourned and cried,

For the Lady of Shallot.

© Caro Field July 2017
http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/millais-ophelia-n01506

I’ve never been a fan of Dr. Who,

Sci. Fi always seemed so false and untrue,

I admit now that I did not have a clue,

It’s Quantum Physics made cool.
The latest series has had it in spades,

Shock denouements, fake masquerades,

A brilliant plot, with all kinds of shades,

It’s like being in a really challenging school!
In this one, the TARDIS came into its own,

With portals into the strange and yet known,

And a brilliant use of a videophone,

This series broke every rule.
The doctor’s about to regenerate,

To a woman? Well, we must speculate,

And a murderer, well, that’s not great,

It’s perfection, to the last molecule.

© Text Caro Ness 2016

Image: Originally posted by James Polamz King

https://plus.google.com/photos/photo/107425619723778236184/6433748245209602354?iem=4&gpawv=1&hl=en-GB 

A gazebo erected in High Level Drive,

Half blew away before the voters arrived.
Well, I voted IN, let me make that quite clear, 

BREXIT-ers, all voted OUT, ’cause they voted with fear,
I voted with conscience and a very clear head,

I hoped others would too, but they were sorely misled.
Though the UK’s in Europe, welll, we no longer are,

Thanks to Brexiters who took xenophobia too far!
We should have sorted our problems, many I know, 

Before sending the country back to 1 – 9 – 5 – 0!

© Text Caro Ness 2016
Image: Courtesy of blog.politics.OX.ac.uk