Singing Vincent back to Life

(A sonnet for Seth, the Bath busker who made me cry)

Beneath the Stall Street Colonnades he sings

Of Vincent and his starry, starry night

The echo of his bright resounding strings

Infusing scintillating rain dropped light

As weary shoppers rest and take a breath

His voice falls low and sweet upon the air

By painted shades of Vincent’s starry death

Drawn forth, an ancient sorrow hard to bear

Hot tears spring and mingle with the mist

And brim and well and fall upon the ground

In blues and greys, like Vincent’s canvas kissed

By grief and madness; blesséd joyful sound

Of one man’s voice, uplifting, sweet and strong

The grave of Vincent opened, with his song


by Gail

Feathered Air

If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent

Men long dead or demented tell no lies

No track or trace remains of where they went

Of whether they were wicked or unwise

If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air

Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould

Unburied memories of who was there

A whisper on the wind, a rumour told

If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind

For keeping silent doubt for all these years

In tangled groves the truth is hard to find

As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears

For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud,

Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd

by Gail


my first sonnet…


Are empaths thieves, of feelings not their own?

Like magpies stealing precious shining rings,

They see the pain by strangers’ faces shown

And understand our secret hidden things

Our tears run down their faces, our delight

May swell their hearts with love or blood or pride,

Fond friends, or someone lonely in the night

Who saw us on the telly and who cried

Unwitting thieves perhaps, but nonetheless

Possessed of power to bless or else to curse,

They know our soul while others merely guess,

May mean well and may love us much; far worse

The psychopath, who sees us without feeling,

Devoid of empathy, beyond all healing


by Gail