Jane Morris is a free-spirited Cornish woman who loves nothing more than to
wander by the sea and watch the waves ebb and flow. She is passionate about
everything to do with marine life and is a member of Seaquest Southwest, an
organisation which aims to track and protect ocean wildlife. She and her husband
welcome all kinds of birds and wildlife to their village garden.
For All That's Love Has Gone
Take to the skies, oh stormy petrel, do,
for all that's love, and is of love, has gone.
Take pity on the clouds, the blinding sun,
for what are they, if life with thee is done?
Let loose the white dove, scatter every leaf,
drain every river dry, release the moon.
Quieten the warbling bird upon the bough
lest any noise they make, silence their tune!
Allow the rose to bleed upon the ground,
settle the woods to rest, put earth to bed.
Remind the stars to burn out, one by one.
What is the use of them, if love is dead.
Crabs & Little Fishy Things
I take your hand.
It feels so delicate in mine with little painted nails,
chipping where the sand has scuffed and rubbed,
when you were building castles.
We wander down this great expanse
of tide and surf and ocean edge.
The sun is in our eyes, but more in mine than yours,
as I am so much taller.
Sometimes I feel the pressure of my love within my heart
more strongly than itís possible to feel.
It is an ache so great that I can hardly breathe.
It is a pain of pleasure and of pride,
yet more so felt today, upon this golden shore
of crabs & little fishy things.
The tide has brought them in, all manner of the sea
are washed up on this sun-kissed beach.
Their little legs so spindly, just like yours,
are running for their lives.
You cry for them, we follow them.
And with their tiny limbs,
they dangle from our fingertips, hearts pounding in their shells.
I see a kindness in your eyes that I have never seen before.
A love for all that lives and all that is.
There is that pain again,
of pride and joy that you are mine,
and we are saving lives together, just as I gave yours to you.
We walk in quietness down the long and roaming shore
to rescue crabs & little fishy things.
Along the cottage garden bed
a gossiping array
of peony and columbine
declared in much dismay:
Amongst us all, a commoner!
A straggler in the soil.
Make haste the idle gardener,
rake out the wretched spoil!
The willow whispered to the rose,
a shudder on the breeze.
The hollyhocks decidedly
felt very ill at ease.
A weed, a weed, how could it be!
Such pestilence and grime!
A thorn amidst regality
'tis nothing but a crime!
The daisy babbled to the brook,
the grapes spoke to the vine.
Hush said the oak, for what is that,
a timid little whine?...
A weed, a weed; I'm not a weed,
I shall not take such blame!...
for scattering love-in-a mist
Nigella is my name!
One Summer's Sky
A silvering of wispy hair
adorned her small face, rose pink, fair.
Of fragile gait and timid air,
she knelt for prayer, she knelt for prayer.
Of withered skin and rheumy eye,
yet in her heart, a young girl, spry.
From chrysalis to butterfly,
one summer's sky, one summer's sky.
A dance hall, softly lit and strewn,
of flowered deck and bright balloon.
And lovers, lost, in love's sweet bloom,
beneath the moon, beneath the moon.
Of passion spent, of secrets saved,
she never spoke, nor ever gave.
Yet of the absent kiss she craved,
took to her grave, took to her grave.
Let not a stone be yet for me
And so I passed again today.
I didn't want to look,
and yet I did.
I always do....
I'm drawn to them, they goad me,
silent graves which lean toward
the flesh of my fragility.
I sat upon the sand and threw an anxious handful
at their lonely wretchedness,
their dignified, but very dead, indifference.
The greyness of the stone
cast shadows of my fear across the sea.
I begged, don't let that yet be me.
not now, when love is found.
No, never now when, like a child I'm learning how to walk.
I feel myself vibrating
to the pounding rhythm of the living wave.
Don't let me die too soon, I'm brave!
I've fought for life; I've bled, I've cried.
I've died a thousand times, and hell,
there's still more living yet.
I watch the churning spray.
The sun, in all her brilliance sets sail atop
a mirage in the foam.
I feel myself a single drop, though very living still.
Upon the bay where, once again,
the morning sun will rise.
And so I tire,
of being fearful of the storm;
and if, and when,
but, if it ever comes.
And when... but, no, not now!...
Let not a stone be yet for me,
when there is simply so much living to be done.