Steven Cooke

Old Friends that say hello
Who share a secret memory?
Away from the road now travelled
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Beneath my tendrils,
The sea has many secrets
And I am the last witness
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(In memory of the 3 million horses killed in War)

Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
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Where the arrow falls
A life is taken
Its flight was always destined to find
The rebel's heart
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Freedom won on a distant battlefield
Gallant words to remember them by
Unspoken tears for the old to cry,
A game for the young to play
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As the moon argues with clouds
In winter's tormented sky
A frail life lingers in the shadows
Waiting for deaths hello
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Through a glass of Whiskey I found her.
Her eyes, Flaming Blue, hiding a glance of Heaven
Her hair golden like the reflection of an English buttercup,
Open to the flirtations of the sun.
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I felt his breath leave the battle field
as bayonet pierced his heart.
The surprise of death lay in his eyes
his blood poured warmth upon my hands,
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An Englishman lost in afternoon tea,
Memories of a lotus flower love
Rajas and elephants in Delhi
Livingstone the explorer
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Another Zulu Dawn
(The Battle for Orgreave Pit)

Cries of Zulu as miners rushed the barricades
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She was eighteen, I was thirty two
She was an unread poem,
I was yesterday’s gift.
Her heart she gave gladly,
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Not a rose, or a lily,
But a buttercup
Languishing in a field of gold,
In some English meadow
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The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
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Fly on hand
born of comrade's corpse,
the only memory of what has gone before.
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This immortal rose that lovers seek
will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak
for her presence will be on every corner.
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Let this day vanquish our differences
for father is still the head.
Put by our petty grievance,
let family rule the day.
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The rose has framed the summer
the leaves have done their duty.
The flowers have shed their seeds
and the hedge rows offer their final feast.
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The tears of life now sleep with them
the guns have found their silence.
These fields of war are now in peace,
only the poppies remain
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A poem about World War 1.
(Ich tötete is German for I killed)
(J'ai tue is French for I killed)
(Yellow mist refers to Mustard Gas)
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A grain of sand was once my rock
this rock was once my life
and life was but a story,
lost in the nurseries of time.
...