The world tipped on its axis
When you walked into it.
It was as if with just one smile,
One word, all the pieces fit.

The world tipped on its axis
When we met up that day,
It burst with technicolour,
No fifty shades of grey.

The world tipped on its axis
And will never be the same,
All my deep desires
Locked in one luscious frame.

The world tipped on its axis
And will never be aright,
Because my dearest, darling one,
You set my world alight.

I had a sip of water,
I had a bite to eat,
Now feeling a bit bloated,
I’ve escaped excessive heat.
I’ll lie here for a little while,
Until I feel I’m done,
Then climb back up the steps again,
And lie in the full sun.

The surf had now withdrawn,
Leaving small tide pools,
Here and there.
Sludgy green moss
Clung to some half-submerged rocks,
And beyond, in the shallows,
Lay the wreck.
Rust speckled its hull and cabin.
The wooden hatches were still battened down,
Hiding who knows what secrets below.
And the decks seemed somehow mournful,
Listing sideways and lifeless.
Yet I swear,
If she was restored to her former métier,
Her bustling, busy, glorious world,
Off before the sun rose fully,
She would bring a great catch home.

It was a message in a bottle,
Written in a cursive hand,
It spoke of loss and loneliness,
In a foreign land.

It was a message in a bottle,
From a sailor now marooned,
Cast ashore for mutiny,
But he was sore impugned.

It was a message in a bottle,
From somewhere quite remote,
Begging for aid and succour,
To be picked up by passing boat.

It was a message in a bottle,
From a man lost and alone,
Begging for a kindness,
For some mercy to be shown.

It was a message in a bottle,
And I swear I shed a tear,
For the sad misfortune,
Of this so-called buccaneer!

It was a message in a bottle,
That washed up on my beach,
And I felt sad the man who wrote it,
Was well beyond my reach.

It was a message in a bottle,
And it spoke straight to my soul,
As if the man who wrote it,
Sprung from it formed completely whole.

It was a message in a bottle,
And if I could I would,
Jump into smack or schooner,
And rescue him for good.

A clandestine meeting,
In an old railway tunnel.
It has to be.
No one can know
How much I love you,
Can see how much I love you.
I must be strong when we say
Our public goodbye.
So must you.
Just two good friends,
Bidding each other adieu.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Only you and I will know,
Know that our hearts will not be whole
Till we see each other again.

It I reach for you,
Will you be there?
To comfort me,
With things I cannot bear?

If I reach for you,
Will you hold me fast?
Until my fearfulness
Has passed?

If I reach for you,
Will you keep me calm?
And give respite
From any qualm?

If I call out for you
To acknowledge my prayer,
And I reach for you,
Will you be there?

A deep natural harbour
East of Macau,
On the opposite side of
The Pearl River Delta,
Surrounded by the South China Sea.
An expensive skyline unfurls
Over the world’s most vertical city.
Immensely inventive and beautiful architecture
Copes with the limited space.
Smog drifts across the bay
As the sun tries to burn it away.
From this junk,
It resembles a ghost town…

The Palm Tree Swing
When I need to collect my thoughts,
I return to the palm tree swing.
The sea comes in,
Goes out.
It soothes and collects my ideas.
The rhythm of the sea
Is a touchstone,
Gathering in each inspiration
In time with each sway of the seat.
There is a palpable sense of solitude,
Yet I do not feel alone.
Just peaceful.
I have a sure sense that I possess space,
Space to be myself.
Space to reach the right decisions.
I can always count on the palm tree swing.

I love my old, rickety bicycle,
But it has definitely seen better days.
So I decided to give it a facelift,
To use it in different ways.
I set about painting it yellow,
So it could be seen everywhere,
Then I gave it a practical purpose,
Turning it into a jardiniere!

We are all waiting to hear what you have to say,
About living on our terms, leading life our own way,
But believe us now, dearie, when you get to our age,
You’ve done your protesting, got past the road rage.
A quiet existence of serenity, charm,
Is our raison d’être, our comfort, our balm,
We have fought all our battles, we’re happy to be,
Alive, happy and kicking at 93!