Mike and Diane Wilson -
Free Spirit

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Diane's poetry
Woodland Walk

Peace in the midst of a cacophony of birdsong
Buzzing bees and pheasant call.
A squirrel stands clutching the acorn he’ll never eat.
The spider and the fly in a web that spans the trees.
A spider never to capture a meal
And a fly forever captured in the web.
Windchimes' deep resonanace echoing in the gentle breeze.
Three giant caterpillars s and curve yet unmoving.
And each step: the bright bluebells.

In Pieces

These poor men,
shadows of men they were.
We try to piece them together.
There are a few
for whom we can patch holes in ragged flesh
but have no way of repairing
ravaged minds.
It tears our hearts to see fear
when doctors declare them fit.
How can any man be fit to return?

Many cry with pains in limbs
that are no longer there
and the worse of it is
they don’t know it yet.
Some reach out,
squeeze our hands in thanks
though agony sears their features.

Other brave souls
give us weak smiles
from within a swathe of bandages,
men whose faces need rebuilding.
Sometimes smiles reach their eyes,
others are dulled with terrible memories
and there are those with no eyes at all.

Gas victims cough, retch and vomit.
Breath, such as it is,
rasps and rattles from wrecked lungs.
They are so weak with lack of sleep.
Constant hacking leaves them exhausted,
red, raw eyes water and sting.
Some have no fingers to wipe away tears.

We watch them packed
on hospital trains,
hope we have done enough,
then we go back . . .

to do it all again.


When opportunity taps my shoulder
I will not pull up my collar or shy away.
I’ll turn and greet him like a friend.
I will not shun him or turn my back,
I’ll shake his hand and look him in the eye.
I’ll not stay silent or ignore his whispers,
I’ll speak with him
and listen to all he offers.
I will not fear him,
afraid to take my chance.
I’ll run with opportunity,
play the same tunes,
sing the same operas,
write the same words,
watch the same sunsets,
dance in the same rain,
jump in the same puddles,
sail the same seas,
climb the same mountains
and soar the same skies.

I will not wait for opportunity to tap my shoulder.
I shall go looking for him.

A Sensory Garden

Lemon Curd, Candy Spice and Rosemary Twist
between my fingertips to leave them sharply fragranced.
Raspberry Royal sweetens the air, a tonic for the body.
Tweak the leaves of Hot Spice to tickle the nose.
Memories of Grandma’s dressing table
With Lily of the Valley.
Rosemary to clean the cut,
And Lavender to relax the mind and self.
Chocolate, Sorrel, Orange, Mint,
Scents, tastes and textures blend pleasantly.
Lemon Balm to delight the bees and lift the spirits.
Horehound for the cough,
Marjoram for the bites and stings,
Sage to slow the aging.
Thyme pressed in finger and thumb,
And time for me to move on.

More of Diane's poetry here

Diane Wilson