In April

I found a poem of mine that I wrote for one of my classes at University, I realise it’s not April but I liked stumbling upon this again and thought that I’d share it. I’m craving the Spring now, I’ve had enough of the cold.


Reflective puddles and relentless showers,
Raindrops tumble down and embellish the flowers.
Little lambs play in the sweet morning dew,
And the intermittent sun, through clouds, peers through.
Bunnies retreat from their warm little burrows,
For the March winds have gone, let us forget our sorrows!
Let us neglect our gloom in the pure warming sun,
And we shall rejoice for April has begun!

After W.H.Auden

This is a poem I wrote after W.H.Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’, I wanted to expand on the feelings that Auden had mentioned in his poem and added my own narrative to it so I could expand on those feelings. The italicised parts are original pieces of text from Auden’s poem.


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
He mumbled mournfully, in hushed tones.
And for once there was silence, in the place he called ‘home’.
He refused to keep company, he just sat there alone.

The air raid sirens sounded over his head,
They appeared to wail too, now that he was dead.
Nothing could cheer him, not even the birds,
Who sang and called to him, but they were not heard.

To him he was everything, he could not be replaced,
And he sat by the window, with an expressionless face.
Every day he sat there, from dawn to dusk,
Would talk to no one, to all he was brusque.

He sat by the window in his bedroom,
By the desk and his papers, all a mass of gloom.
And he stared at the path that led up to his door,
As he hoped he’d come to see him, just once more.

It was evident on him the strain,
But he did come to him once again.
He wandered in his dreams at night,
His smile soft and his eyes so bright.

In the morning when he would wake,
How his pitiful heart would ache.
But every night he closed his eyes,
He fulfilled his wish of saying goodbye.

My North, My South, My East, My West,
Without your love, I cannot rest.
Pack up the Moon, dismantle the Sun,
For without you, for me there is none.’

Rabbit in the long grass


(Drew this in a bit of hurry, and from memory so it isn’t the best but I’m happy with it considering.) I miss living in the countryside, every morning I’d take a walk to lectures (mostly all 9 am) and most mornings I’d see a rabbit, some birds or a hedgehog occasionally. Now I’m back living in London, I’m lucky if I see a pigeon or poor fox looking for something to eat.

There’s something so humbling about nature.

Words with the Moon (Unfinished)

Oh lucid moon,
Your stare so cold and distant.
And as you reveal yourself,
From the London smog.
I am beguiled by your form.
Omniscient but reticent,
You watch over us
Our World’s still bystander.
Won’t you relinquish your silence,
And tell me what you see?

‘Turbulent tides,
change before my eyes.
When darkness is wreaked,
And imposed upon the world
The unsightliness of it all is revealed.
Walls and barriers that divide,
When you people should be allies.’

‘Why do you not love one another?
Why do you hurt, hate and betray each other?

The Oseberg

The room scarcely alive
With the sound of hollow steps.

Excavated from home soil
From glorious Earth’s depths.

Endless eyes that glance over
The embellished and handcrafted form.

Won’t understand her strength within
Because no longer does she ride the storm.

Kinsmanship that has been forgotten
For the hands that crafted are long gone.

Won’t ever feel the salty waves again
Or hear a Viking’s song.

She cares not for visitors
Who come to fill an empty afternoon.

Neither does she care for guides
Who feel their words to be a boon.

But how she longs to be caressed
By the unrelenting sea.

And waves that crash and break upon
The beautiful bow of she.

The Willow’s Sentiment

Willow, Willow, I stare upon your worn and weathered face,
How you hold your cherished leaves in a soft and sweet embrace.
Lissome in form, body entwined but strong,
Basking in the delight of a distant nightingale’s song.
Enchanted by you, my mind is enthralled,
As if you speak to me personally, your memories are recalled.
Jaded maids who slept in your shade from the midday Sun,
Thrushes built nest in your branches to nurse their young.
Illuminated by the pale, blue moonlight,
A rendezvous point for forbidden lovers at night.
And all alone in the bleak Winter’s snow,
You still sheltered the traveller who had far to go.
Willow, Willow, oh how you quietly observed,
And relinquished the company, without utterance of a word.