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Richard Trembath Poems
The Tree On Gibbet Hill
BENEATH your dying, splintered boughs ’Midst rocks the horses graze, Your broken, withered limbs give not A hint of earlier days, Days when you bore your dreadful fruit, When human life you craved, When haunted, hell-bound sinners you Denied the very grave.
The Seasons Of Our Love
We missed each other's Springtime because we were elsewhere. Then Summer came, and left again and still you were not there.
The silent glow flickers on your face and is mirrored in your eyes.
While Love Remains
We are never apart as long as I have memories of you And you of me:
You keep saying that you want to go And that you’re going to go:
Emptiness. How deep the well that plummets into nothingness. How bitter the soft tears I cry
We Have Grown Old
We have, both of us, grown old And our beauty now is reflected from within
Within The Soft Night's Warm Embrace
Hid by woman’s precious arc there lurks the dreaded spectre dark and waits to strike where ego lies, the arc for which the newborn cries.
We start our working lives believing we shall be rewarded by a grateful master: But we learn that we are merely
In The Company Of Strangers
We live our lives in the company of strangers: How little we know of the hearts
When do we cut the ribbons which connect us, cease the pretence of wishing to be the pillars of society, respected,
Our Winter Lives
They disappear more quickly in the colder, barren climes Where snow falls steadily and covers them:
Without you this room is just a room, These walls are only walls. Without you this day is just another day And I care not about it
When Did The Roses Die?
Where did they go, the golden sands, The beach I walked with you? Where went the sun that shone To grace the days when our love was new?
Comments about Richard Trembath
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Tree On Gibbet Hill
BENEATH your dying, splintered boughs
’Midst rocks the horses graze,
Your broken, withered limbs give not
A hint of earlier days,
Days when you bore your dreadful fruit,
When human life you craved,
When haunted, hell-bound sinners you
Denied the very grave.
The days when you defiant stood,
A warning to the land,
Of Mankind’s inhumanity
And Death’s swift icy hand;
The ghost of one such tortured soul
They say lurks with you still
And curses those who scorn the dead
Who hung on Gibbet Hill.
But time is pass’d, ...