Just Giving

I’m giving my body to science
No hearse will take me away
There’ll be no morbid funeral
Nor hefty costs to pay
I’m giving my body to science
To be dismantled bit by bit
Prodded and poked systematically
In a bid to keep you fit
I’m giving my body to science
The ultimate donation
I’m finally going to uni
To fulfil my true vocation

Photo credit: Memorial at Cardiff University


Realm of the elm

There’s no-one there
to wipe away my tears.
No-one to care
who’ll alleviate my fears.
There’s no tender voice
to tell me it’s okay.
I made my choice
to walk the other way.
Away from the one
who could not tell
how I flew into the sun,
to await the tolling knell.
Death has become me
I can hear its call.
I sense the urgency,
feel the pressing pall.
As a stake is driven
deep into my soul,
love and life are riven,
out of my control.
Hold out your hands,
call me to your realm;
to far off meadowlands
to rest beneath the elm.
There, to lay at peace;
no more this weary world,
where once, upon my knees,
the angry daemons whirled.

Take me


She crept softly into your room each night,
kissed your eyelids shut tight,
whispered, ‘I love you’ with all her dainty might.
You felt her presence, but didn’t see her;
she was the breeze that swept through the open window,
calming, cooling your burning fever.
She brushed away stray locks from your forehead,
perched silently on the edge of your bed
thinking of all the things she’d left unsaid.
Too late to speak; time had passed.
When she was taken, the die was cast,
the space between too wide, too vast.

You dreamt of her tonight; you uttered
her name, and when your lashes fluttered,
she knew to reach out – and what you heard
was the sound of harps and angels singing.
She took your hand, carefully bringing
you through with ease, heaven’s bells ringing.
Both now on the other side,
she looks once more into your eyes,
holds you in her arms, and through the sighs
she speaks the words she’s longed to say,
Smoothed all your hurts and fears away.
Finally as one, in death, to live another way.

I’m not ready to die

Life, like the seasons, is cyclical;
a circle of growth, life, death and suspension.
Did I mention I’m still growing?
I’m at that mid-point between spring and summer
New buds appear from here and there.
I take care to nourish them; to help them blossom and bloom –
their beauty to share with you… and you.
It won’t be long, and yet too soon, they will wither.
I will drop my guard and fall.
My limbs will start to ache and yet… behold!
Autumnal leaves of red and gold will blanket the forest floor –
crisp for a while; underfoot percussion to our leisurely meanderings
until the rains turn all to molten mush and cold creeps in.
Come! Hither!
Put your arms around me.
Hear how the branches crackle?
How the trunk stiffens; held firm in the shackles of winter?
Blustering winds may rally to tear me apart, but I’m not ready to take my final breath.
Whilst a part of me cannot evade this thing called death, I will rest for a while;
let glistening snowflakes adorn and fire-breasted birds alight.
Offer myself to the elements as I lie dormant… still…beautiful.
Nature will work her magic and I will spring back to life,
to sparkle in my newly sown gown of peridot, emerald and jade.