OVERFLOW

Remembrance Day

I lost the poppy you gave me.

I felt so sorry,

Sorry for losing the poppy.

You pinned it on my collar, though,

But I did not know

That with the strong wind it would go.

Then I turned round and round again

Thinking "what a shame,

I must have lost it in the lane".

And I will remember that day

Which is known as Remembrance Day,

Not only because of the men

Who all went lame - so said Owen-

It was the first time you gave me

A flower: a red paper poppy.

Island, my Island

When I am weary and gloomy,

My thoughts fly to you, happily.

I know you now, but long ago,

In a child’s head was the sweet dream

Of an island she did not know.

It was lively as a sunbeam.

And later on I was taught that

A wise man called his: Utopia.

My island had no name at all.

It just peopled my dreamy soul.

On the vessel of my thoughts I

Used to travel to the fine isle.

Right in the middle of the sea

A piece of lands I longed to see

Superseded my old dreamland.

It is real. It exists, and

On a world-map I can spot it.

I went there for a year-trip.

On a plane that flies through the sky,

Or on a Ferry on the sea,

I am glad to go to the isle

Which I am so happy to see.

I was born on the continent,

But on the isle, my heart’s content.

BATH

I want to write an ode for thee,

Which from my window I could see;

Houses here, countryside there,

Your splendid landscape is so rare.

With joy and pleasure my heart fills,

When I ramble over your hills.

In the morning when you awake,

A gentle breeze does often shake

Your greenish leaves covered with dew;

And from my hill, I behold you.

It's most pleasant to be walking

And wandering when it's drizzling,

And then strolling alond the stream

All glittering in the sunbeam.

When I behold you in the night

You offer me a different sight:

Run over by a twinkling wreath

Winding along the slope. Beneath,

The town seems to be cool an d still;

But if you ever hear a shriek

On the wuthering heights of Bath,

Over the hill, along the path,

Do not worry, for it's the wind

Which shakes the leaves and makes them sing.

It howls behind the window pane

Until it opens; but in vain...

The Voices of BATH

He gives a voice to bath at night

The fiddler, standing in the dark,

Near the porch, under the arch.

His music glows in the twilight,

Bewitching the odd passersby

Now gone with tears in their eye.

The old busker is one of those

Artists who will get no applause.

Going to town one afternoon,

I felt attracted by a tune.

In the middle of Union Street,

If you are lucky, you might meet

The young artist and his piano.

Among people I did not know,

I was standing, gazing at him,

My soul filled with his melody.

If you are in town in the day,

You might see him by the Abbey.

He belong to the heart of Bath,

Charming the tourists on their path.

His costume is golden and white,

You might also hear him at night.

His intrument, a recorder,

Sings in the hands of his owner.

No rolling moors where heather grows,

Maybe some mist in the distance.

The fashion shops started to close,

The bagpiper started his dance.

At Christmas time I saw him there,

Sitting in the midst of nowhere.

Smiling away, he had a kind

Angelic face out of time.

His fingers skimmed the little string

Of his harp which started to sing

In a soft and delicate voice,

Mingling, in the street, with the noise.

Have you seen him in black and white,

In Union Street, just on the right,

His shiny shoes tapping the ground?

In the background the music's sound

Reminds you of the "gay twenties".

He has no band playing with him,

For the music-hall singer is

Another busker in the street.

It was wintertime when I saw

The two of them. I did not know

That I would hear again in spring

The chap on his guitar strumming,

His dog sitting next to him, shy.

Then his master stopped for a while,

Rubbing his hands frozen with cold.

To bear that cold he must be bold.

I had never heard him before.

The dark street of the Corridor

On the glinting saxophone lives,

Reflected on the instrument.

The music reigns. The man believes

In the musical fulfilment.

Go out as well, and you will meet

An artist standing on his feet.

Many more voices rise in Bath;

Dozens of birds screeching away,

Whispers, laughter, rumblings of wrath,

For all of them there is a way.

The Lady on the Balcony

Sitting on the green balcony,

The Lady was smiling at me

Saying "hello" in a sweet tone

When she perceived me going home,

Entering the great house next door

From where she heard me leave before.

Standing halfway in the alley,

I looked up, stopped, and we would chat.

The Lady's hair was short and grey.

She fed squirrels, birds, and stray cats.

The Lady was always smiling.

One day, she showed me her paintings.

The Lady on the balcony

Enjoyed the weather - when sunny!

She used to live in hot countries.

I liked listening to her stories,

And she was, indeed, a painter;

Especially for book-covers.

The Lady on the balcony

Wanted to fly in a balloon.

She wanted to see the city

From above, in the afternoon.

It was her dream - we all have one;

Mine was to travel to the Isle.

I found it hard to say "goodbye"

To her, Peter, my landlady...

My year in Bath quickly gone by,

Has left good memories to me.

I will, of course, go there again.

Meanwhile, I get news through the mail.

The Lady on the balcony,

Lying inside her house was cold.

Her head had hit the balcony;

She then was brought to hospital.

The news came to me and I cried,

Fearing that she might lose her smile.

The Lady missed her balcony.

By the time, she was ninety-three.

The news came to me recently:

"Last February she passed away".

The Lady's still smiling away,

Forever, in my memory.

To Mrs REED