‘Edenbray in Exile’

A Retrospective Anthology of Poetry, Articles and Essays

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HONEY POT

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The uncomfortable truth

Like a swollen river flooding

Carries purpose with waste

And a tune you may only whistle

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No one can hold a soft, black moth

Or a paper fly in a calloused hand

Without damage or bruising conscience

It’s a deceit you are forced to learn

>><<

That face I love has grown older now

Innocence creased, wan and leathered

It still holds the memory that burns

Worth more now the envelopes open

<><>

Things go with you to the grave

Not just secrets, lies or murder

Words unspoken, silent confessions,

Quiet prayers queuing for an answer

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In that velvet, purple journal

Love’s treasured moments rest

They glisten in their infancy

Colours of a pheasants chest

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Lives lived with faces to the wall

Harsh choices made in haste

Loyalty a dark knight, 

Filiality a burnished, beaten sword

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Hold it tight together

Your arms wrapped round it’s chest

What’s good, what’s brave, what’s honest

Dressed in gold, a silken vest

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   writtenbyedenbray27.01.2017

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#Authors Note: I’m sure it will have been argued somewhere and at some time or other – large and long – that the writer writes better under pressure. Under pressure of pain, of sense, of feeling, of travail, of persecution, of rage, of passion, of concern, of charity, of compassion, of regret, of guilt, of pride, of remorse, of resolve, of defence, of accusation, of belief – of love.

I loved the Honey Pot.                                                          edenbraytoday