john thomas

Flicker little candle bright
Leadeth me to bed at night,
Protect me from that squeaky stair
And whatever lives in there.
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Most revered mountain of my Countyland
A Yorkshire Folks Mecca to atop your summit stand,
Your anthem sung by travelers all
Hob nail on millstone grit,
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I held his hand when I was young,
I held it when his life was done,
Held it as he sighed his last -
Recalling times, and glories passed.
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Sweet Holly, Pine and Mistletoe,
Your charms I here compare;
Though Yuletide guardians of frosted snow,
‘Tis my love who’s Goddess there.
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John William the Phrenologist
Read bumps upon my head,
He then informed my Mother-
“Get this child at once to bed! ”
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Upon a bank beneath a tree
Beside a trickley brook,
Upon an upturned nutshell I saw a fairy stood.
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What torment to my thoughts you crave
To dissenter me from my grave,
Far escalates our quib!
You’d violate such sacred box?
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Friendly little bird with the human eye
When spade strikes the earth you stop by,
Standing in garden by my side
Watching blade till and glide,
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As tempest of a salty spew
Whose view of World is wild, askew
These words that you will spake!
What trips ere from your tongue is fact?
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Yours; I’m yours! Today’s the day;
No more countdowns, No time to delay;
Yours? - Too early to reflect; to doubt –
Doubt! - I have none; of this I am sure;
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What joy you bring, my inept foe,
Whose whit, like gait, is ere so slow,
And with whose thoughts I merry play,
Should you but only prise blind eyes -
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Come see my precious garden grow,
There Foxglove, Ergot and Savin blow
And Hemlock and the Sea-Squill white –
Do bloom and grow for my delight.
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Come to my arms and lay, ‘My Love’,
Please grant me this, my boon,
And in your eyes show me that ‘Dove’
Whilst lips sing sirens tune!
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Awake ‘My love’, embrace the light
And feel the warmth of what is bright,
For ‘Tis my love for you.
Do not stay blind, for you must see,
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Catch a curse upon the lips
And pucker it in to a kiss,
Think before you let it go
Before it does the damage; Oh! –
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Such pain and suffering as ensues
From the torment in my head,
O sweetheart, why do you refuse
That I keep faith to our bed;
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Vile vertian growth of no delight
Who will not pass beyond the craw,
Whose colour is unnatural bright,
No twig do I detest the more.
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Smote the ‘lump’ upon the ‘drive’
The ancient oak did groan,
Smote it down a second time –
And not a stave did moan.
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I pray each day my Mother
That you will come for me,
Though I endure the Parsons saw
I fail to follow he.
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At Carreg Cair on the Calder Cam -
Gazed the Celtic eyes of Aran John,
Across a bay becalmed with fret
He breathed the dawn of the day he met.
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