Not for you, the intimacies of the night;  

you like the light;

the freedom of dawn, when

scampering winds shepherd clouds

over the hills of your dreams.


Not for you, the beguiling song of the blackbird;

the one you cannot trust.  

You prefer the high rise worry of larks,

the pied piping of oystercatchers,

the querulous slide of the curlew.


Not for you, the hooting melancholy wood,

but the thrill of the moor;

the paraglide of pipits,  the thrum

and squeak of roller coaster snipe,       

the tumble and whoop of plovers.  


Not for you the furtive stoat in its crevice,

in the windy wall.

You favour the clear lines of the wheatear,

his bright soliloquy in pastel, his promise in slate, 

his innocent gift of primrose.


Romance is not for you; too intense.

You’ve no time

to waste on pain and sighs.

You want no make believe, no lies, 

just constancy ….. and life.