MyLoversWish.com

Fire Mistress

There was a smoldering ember in that slowly dying fire, stoked by heat and passion of a newly found desire. A blaze raging wantonly, creating an insatiable pyre; Consequences unforeseen, flames reaching ever higher. And as the heat was passed into that all-consuming spire, the tiny torch that set it aflame was extinguished in the mire. In saving one matrimonial blaze another succumbed to the ire. Heed the valuable warning now: Stay away from the flame and the liar 143

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Bus Travel in Iberia

Bus Travel in Iberia   We are driving past nice houses, built by Portuguesewho have spent a life time working in France or Swiss.Lot of brass and gilded door knockers, made me thinkof expensive coffins, the kind used to bury kings andstatesmen, so utterly hideous, they must be glad to bedead. But I will not scoff it is someone’s dream I’m looking at. Who am I to be a critic? Sometimes dreams shouldstay firmly in the other world’s realm, or failing that,listen to the advice of an architect; mind there aren’tthat many good ones around, it’s all about money.I’m sitting on a bus on my way to France, it’s the least expensive way to get there, we are all poor and equal.  I like the journey and there are regular stops for a peeand something to eat. The landscape we travel thoughright now has big boulders strewn about as some giantsof yore have been playing bowls. A signpost tells me weare nearing Castello Branco, fifty minutes stop for lunchand stretching of numb legs.      143

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The Godwake

He stretched himself slowlyAnd rubbed at his eyes,Rolled over and got to his feet,His breastplate was rusty, the straps and the eyesHad mouldered while he was asleep,And on the horizon, though barely awakeThe sun struggled over the hill,It gleamed on the droplets of dew on the grassAs the figure stood listening and still.His eyes, they looked puzzledHis visage was grim,He looked for the pillars of home,And where were the votaries praying to him,The Standards, the Legions of Rome?And where were the barracks, the stables, the mess,The clash of the soldiers within?The silence of centuries caught at his earsAnd the meadows lay, fallow and green.He looked for the portals thatOver the hill,Had stood for Minerva, his bride,The altar, mosaics, the statue of him,The flowers from the countryside.The sentries that stood at attention all dayProtecting his bride at her bath,The fountain that gushed by the altar inside,The meandering hillside path.He came upon hedgerowsAnd thickets and trees,The landscape had altered its creed,No sign of his goddess, the altar, the beesThat had buzzed in the glade for their mead.He stood for a moment, a tear at his eye,Then roared in some Latin, and groaned,As lightning forked down at the primitive soundThat had brought every province to Rome.A man wandered out fromA thicket down there,A hedger who wielded his shears,He shrunk at the lightning and pulled off his cap,Heard Latin, and covered his ears,The country ran deep in the old fellow's veins,From Angle and Saxon and Celt,Before his beloved Britannia had beenLike a slave on a Roman's belt.The God stood a terribleThirty hands high,The old man had judged, by his horse,His helmet, though rusty, had brown-ringed the sky,His eye had set fire to the gorse,He looked at the old man, who fell to his knees,And sensed there was something amiss,He bid him arise, and he looked in his eyesAnd he pointedly stared at the shears.The hedger was cunning,He opened his shears,And pointed the blades at the God,'These shears are magic, I bid you beware!They act like a lightning rod.These shears have cut down the Legions of Rome,They've banished them all from our shores,Have toppled your chapels and scattered their gods,So none of this country is yours!'The God turned and staggeredWay over the hill,And down to a ribboning road,The enemy's chariot came at him, untilHe could see where the charioteer rode,He drew out his mighty and rusty old sword,Swung once, 'til it ran him right down,And Mithras was shattered and battered to dustOn the outskirts of Caerleon Town!The hedger laid Rosemary, Parsley and ThymeAt the place where her altar had been,He'd known in his bones that it lay in his fieldsFor Minerva was locked in his genes,While a Mack eighteen-wheeler lay dead by the roadWith a slash that had sliced it apart,And a gibbering driver was heard to exclaim:'I'm done with those purple hearts!'David Lewis Paget 143

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The Crest of the Greening Valley

The Crest of the Greening ValleyI walk alone along the crest of the greening valleyBillowy white and gray clouds obscure the sunshine which, just yesterday, bathed me in warmth as I walked this very path, its rays filtering through the barren branches, casting playful shadows on the budding grass.Today, tiny white petals, pulled too early from their new homes by the harsh, chilly wind,mingle with tiny white snowflakes, creating a surreal spring snow-scape; a whiteblanket covering a lush green bed.Winter screams, "I'm not finished!" as the wind whistles past my unprotected ears.Spring, unwillingly, retreats.I walk alone along the crest of the now-white valley.A solitary ray of sunshine breaks through the billowy clouds like a spotlight.The crystalline snowflakes reflect its light like tiny prisms, creating tiny rainbows;  a beautiful array of color against the freshly fallen snow.Spring whispers gently back, "I'm coming soon!"  Its vibrant colors a preview of the new season.A snowflake lands on my eyelash and a gust of wind steals my breath for a moment. 143

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animal welfare in Swiss

Tanka (Animal Welfare)   If I were a chickenI would love to live in SwissProtected by lawYou have to kill me quickly Before grilling me.   Tanka  (animal welfare) If I were a sealI would like the open seaShun hunters on iceWho would only sell my skinTo the rich ladies of Swiss.      143

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