The Witchyman More of My Poems

The Warning by A.C. Williams    Ď78

Shrouded in cloudless mists of reality,

in a hazy shroud of banality,

whispered in the night calls of owls

and demons howling of wolves,

in icy cold untaken puns,

beyond the realms,

to windswept times ridden shipís helms

a call, in the autumn full.

 

 

 

Blackdown        A. Williams.

To stand alone and taste the clear silent air,

where the sound of the warbler breaks the silence,

and the butterflies flutter in the wind,

over the carpet of heather and gorse,

our ancient ancestors were laid to rest in this peaceful place.,

whether it be on a twilight autumn day,

or in a summer haze,

one could be in anytime,

so far from anywhere on Blackdown.

 

Life within life  By A. Williams. Written 24/3/79

Here from which all life starts,

an atom, a molecule, an egg,

like a seed blowing in the wind,

planted in the ground then dies,

from rotting wood comes new life,

in the darkness withers then spreads itís spores in the wind,

a million cells swimming in an organic sea,

to the hunter and the hunted,

death, birth, regeneration,

the whole cycle of life,

life within life.

 

 

Stoney Littleton Long Barrow       by Andrew Williams March 2006

The turmoil and pressures of life seem so far away

as I sit in this ancient neolithic tomb

built 5000 years ago,

the silence seems so strong,

only broken by the odd drip of water

or distant sound from the outside,

the daylight seeps in down the tunnel,

peace and tranquility abound in this sacred place

where our ancestors were laid to rest,

in the never ending cycle of life.

 

 

Syd Barrett    by A. Williams in 94

In twilight dreams on velvet clouds,

or oceans of green in strange surrounds,

he shone like a star,

that now seems distant and far,

in those flowery days which blossomed so much hope,

as the piper plays his timeless tune

we never interlope

 

 

The Whistling Copse by A. Williams

As I sit beneath the towering trees

whose branches waver in the autumn breeze,

which reach up to the clouds,

I gaze up to the sky,

the wind appears to whisper around the wood

like a thousand ghostly voices surrounding me

and the leaves dance in the wind

in time to natureís tune,

that speaks to all who wish to listen,

on top of the hill in the whistling copse.