THE WINDMILLS OF OLD…TAVERHAM
Gone are the windmills of Taverham;
they are not there any more
beside the main road to Fakenham,
sailing their smiles as before.
Gone to the long reaches of Norfolk,
gone to that shine in the sky;
where Constable praises wide Suffolk,
arresting light air by and by.
The children are crossing, as ever.
Drivers stop, stare at the scene.
A building site greying to never:
the footpath and garden fence lean
to windmills of every description
and windmills of every size,
that crowded the garden’s conscription;
romancing the earth into skies.
Long-gone is that shrine to sweet Norfolk.
Grey heads rest sail-dreams to day.
Wind turbines will slice steps to Suffolk
and windmills of Walsingham Way.
EROS OF THE MUSE (the poem-lover) Wendy Webb
He comes with night and morning’s shining wings,
descends on Psyche, prone, where he alights.
She turns her gaze as air, ethereal, sings
and wraps her love in feather-down delights.
He rises, harsh and strong; she’s weak with love
and cannot break the rhythm of his flow.
She pants and pulls him closer, from above,
refracting gleams as godhead/darkness show.
She grieves before his leaving mould and stamp
of impotent weak arms around broad chest.
He heaves to absence morning’s cold and damp
as she rolls into dreams; knows that he’s gone.
But not for long; all day drags, dimming sheen
into her night, as sunshine brims serene.