southward at sunset

eight miles away the broad and open sea
beyond the earth's curve lies the spanish main
eyes cannot see it no matter how they strain
towards that south no birds appear to flee
there's not much difference except for degree
as much of sunshine but a different pain
the sunset on the water a huge bloodstain
so many came in chains so few arrived here free
down on the beaches there's a different life
the catch brought in and fried on friendly fires
beer and fried dumplings added to the feast
on land or water always a mode of strife
between tellers of true tales and plain liars
somewhere there roams a contemplative beast

looking at malvern mountain

the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill
its colours make it stand out from the green
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

the road is carved by act of human will
it's level length is very easily seen
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill

in the mountain valley all is calm and still
a few flowers in hedges are allowed to preen
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

the birds that cry their messages are shrill
the air around us is both clear and clean
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill

i hurry over the pathway trying not to spill
my schoolbag and make a stupid scene
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

with miles to go there is no time to kill
from start to finish there's no pause between
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

at piarco it was raining

you look down from the plane at the sight
familiar from the map of the country below
across the island there's a steady glow
of house and street lamps banishers of night
you're headed south the last stage of the flight
minute after minute the time seems to flow
as you move towards a place you do not know
in hope of something fresh a new insight
not given to other travellers ahead more lights
signal the journey's end the new found place
where answers may be given and things learned
you wonder now what demons and what sprites
will rear up suddenly looking in your face
and asking whether your soul has been burned

red sky in the morning

which way the roads turn is hard to know
the hill seems far away then not so far
change direction slightly and things jar
still the pace of life is steady and slow
as people wait in fear the hammerblow
of storm that will so many good deeds mar
the calm still moment seems just so bizarre
what people really feel they will not show
the news is good no storm just pelting rain
roads turn to rivers and some trees will fall
but nothing like the breeze in fullest wrath
what fills the hopeful and expectant brain
is gladness that no bereft ones will bawl
this time the hurricane's taken another path