The Thinking Poet


In Dead of Night
In dead of night 
the fragrant damask dies, 
its florid beauty bled. 

In deep dead of night 
the owl-hoot doubt insists, 
all slumber fled. 

At dead of night 
the vixen terror strikes, 
so soft her tread. 

In cold dead of night 
the fledgling hope lies still, 
all life-blood shed. 

At still of night 
the fretful tree, anxiety, 
sways and soughs toward the streaming pane, 
grasping, threatening, black; 
driven by that alien wind 
which spits a spiteful rain. 
And the stair-creak threat 
creeps up, and up again, 
till it stands outside the door and waits 
whilst throbbing ear-drums strain. 

In dead of night 
an unwound time runs down, 
and steeple chimes, grown tired,
hold back the light. 
Drips from sodden leaves pace out the pain 
of waiting for the solstice sun's return. 
Sullen eyes seek out the dawn's blood stain. 

Ron Cretchley
Politicians resemble the ass:
They bray,
But have nothing to say.
They should emulate the boot
With its silent tongue
That has a use,
And knows not abuse.

Politicians - learn from the tortoise!
It spends its day
In a purposeful way;
A reptile that never beguiles.

Also the tortoise
Has never taught us
To be raucous.

Politicians - respect the oyster!
You thrive
By eating alive
This simple bivalve.
Yet oysters
From their cloisters
Bring forth pearls to be cast before roisterers
Like you.


Ron Cretchley