When she turns off the news
To escape the blues
And plays Strauss.
Oh! how uplifting
A sound that is shifting
Each speck of grief
From the house.

When the cheese is Stilton
And the poetry’s Milton
She’s fulfilled.
When the bread is wholemeal
And her income a fair deal
She is thrilled.

When the sun is shining
Where she’s reclining
It’s bliss
When her hair is breeze stirred
And an evening song bird
Back grounds a kiss.


She can listen to opera
While he is gone
And let her gaze fall
Where the sunlight has shone
Leaving a pool of golden light,
She can enjoy being alone despite
The empty room;
It contains no gloom
She can paint, write or dream.
Though his presence may seem
Rare these days, he is always out
But if that is all there is
To complain about,
She will not protest.
No not she,
But will enjoy life’s happiness
Content just to be.


The notes of Bengali
Sound like rain on a car roof.
If we listen, we can often
Explain, not the meaning
But a kindness and truth.

The words of Bengali
Like a gurgling stream
Brightly rippling over stones,
Part of a musical dream
With its rich and varied tones.

The speech in Bengali
Is passionate and serious
With secret laughter
In dark eyes.
Bengali voices are varied
And mysterious
With a grace, innocent
And wise.


I’m flying about with my wings
Doing extraordinary things.
I sleep in the trees.
I ride on the breeze.
When I open my beak,
It sings!

I peck on the rain slushy ground.
My bright eyes can see all who pass.
With a song and a flutter
I twirl from the gutter
On to a side verge of grass.

Newspapers, beer cans and grot
Sideline the pavements and rot,
So I fly in the air
And pretend I don’t care.
I’m glad I can’t be what I’m not.

I can’t be a dog or a cat.
Well I’m very pleased about that!
They may be stronger,
But their journeys take longer
And some of them live in a flat!

At dawn when the crimson sun rests,
She glimmers a light on my breast.
A sea gull and I dive into
the sky
Now don’t ask me why.
Perhaps it’s because we are blessed.

Yes I’m flying about with my wings
Doing extraordinary things.
I sleep in the trees.
I ride on the breeze.
When I open my beak,
It sings!


Let not the children of tomorrow
Inherit our sorrow
As we disregard our planet’s worth.
For what we leave behind
Surely will unwind
When they no longer celebrate
Each birth.

As stars shine in the deep,
Our imaginations leap
To a future no longer ours.
We shall not see them weep
When only pictures keep
Alive the memory of trees and flowers.

When all lights are artificial
And friendships superficial,
Lonliness the usual mode of living.
They may not know the regret
Of their forefathers and yet
Let’s hope they find a way
Of forgiving!