Colin Breck Boardman Poems

The painter searching with his eyes,
Finds fickle beauty to espy;
The poet weaving metaphors,
Turns upon an obscure clause;
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I'm sorry if I did bore you so
Or bore you even now,
Perhaps you didn't really know
Me as you may have thought though,
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What evidence there lived a muse of fire?
None, save these lines of burning tears
Which once they to the open air transpire
Will leave no sign that she on Earth was here.
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O, how I smile!
I smile at the morning sun,
I smile when the day is done;
I smile at a cup of tea,
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'I am no one',
He said,
'I am as the midnight sun,
I am nobody,
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I shall no longer whine up to the Moon,
No longer pine in hope as sweethearts do,
No longer play the lover's lonely tune
Or serenade her horning head anew.
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What care I for Beauty's shallow face
When all about is colour'd grey and dun?
Why should I from these darken'd shadows race
To bathe upon brief moments in the sun?
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I'm glad that I still have a heart
And feel the way I do,
I'm glad that all these feelings art
Experienced as true,
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Some people are contented with their faith
And see the world through a different lens
And in their miracles and their magic bathe,
As Father Christmas the young children ken.
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Underneath a willow tree,
Beside this opening lock,
Weeping away the Autumn sunshine,
As the narrowboats rise and fall,
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