Carol Naylor's REVIEW it...

There's a stillness around the place that I Could not have envisaged. An unwelcoming gloom, A veil of darkness smothering the air, Poisoning the atmosphere coupled with an eerie silence That threatens to invade the nooks and crannies Of existence. No more early morning calls, dawn raids Or catnapping on your favourite chair on the terrace, No leisurely strolling around the garden, sniffing and Stalking innocent birds or late night caterwauling. The end of an era little buddy, life spent, down and definitely out. Copyright 2014. Permission must be obtained from the author before reproduction of this poem.

Jessie 1995-2014. "It's time," he said as I withdrew into my battered shell. Is there ever a right time to go? To leave this earth? To shuffle off this mortal coil? Or to go gently into that good night? To drift from this world into oblivion, to die and go we know not where? Without a soul to live on. No spirit left. Nothingness. No trace of your existence even. Just fading memories. How sad.     When everyone deserted me, you were there, always there, My faithful friend, constant, offering me unconditional love, Well-needed companionship. A well-travelled cat, British through and through, Full of the zest of life until you ended your days here in Spain. Welcoming that eternal slumber to end your pain for ever.     I was there right to the bitter end, holding you, stroking you, already grieving As you peacefully slipped away. "It's time," he said. Goonight Jessie. God bless.   Copyright 2014. Permission must be obt...

As the evening draws to a close And the bubble of excitement finally bursts, Drowsy youngsters, deprived of sleep, Clinging carelessly to parents like limpets All stifling yawns, bleary-eyed, cushioned in sleep, Stumbling outside in the oppressive heat of night. Murmurs of farewells, adieu, barely audible as The curtain of darkness cloaks the world. A sombre parade as families escape to their sanctuaries A peaceful accolade to mark the end of prize-giving!! 2011, Tabuk, KSA. Copyright 2013. Permission must be obtained from the author before this poem is reproduced.

Walk down the lane my pretty wee lass, Lift up ye' petticoat as ye' plough through the quagmire, And hold on to ye' precious bairn as ye' go pass'.   Hold up ye' staff as ye' traipse thru' the grass, Onwards ye' weary wonderers as ye' near the byre. Walk down the lane my pretty wee lass.   Follow the track that rolls thru' the valley, the mass Of fertile soil, the undulating hills. Try not to tire. And hold on to ye' precious bairn as ye' go pass'.   Ye' wee bairn is deep in slumber as ye' hasten so fas'. The village is burning, the stacks are on fire. Walk down the lane my pretty wee lass.   Wind ye' way doon to the river like an ocean so vast. The village is smouldering, the inferno is dire And hold on to ye' precious bairn as ye' go pass'.   Why do ye' falter my bonny wee lass? Turn back, hie thee away from the funeral pyre. Haste ye' doon the lane...