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She turns her face to the Autumn sun
its warmth high-lighting auburn hair
now sprinkled with silver
a prelude to the Winter years

Perched on a standing stone
one of eight in a grassy circle
she gazes outwads towards the mountains
listening to echoes of past times

In the kind noon small birds sing
from every tree, chickets chirp in the rushes
a soft breeze moves among the sparkles
of late dewdrops in the sun

The woman sits and listens
breathing in the golden day
the rustle of dying leaves whispers "October".
she will remember this day in mid-winter

Pam Muller



Though I have wandered wide on devious trails
and pierced the face of many shrouding veils,
my stumbling feet seem never to retrace
the steps that took me to the point of grace:

I came once to a vast and tranquil place
and in that moment forged a perfect verse,
I’d found at last the comfort of my seat,
so set the cornerstone of my new keep;

My vagrant thoughts then plied me with a feast
that I, awake, could not hope to digest,
And I found the true reward of that late hour
at the apex of my newly crafted bower.

But I awoke to find a blasted heath,
my sanctuary in ruins about my feet,
and though I wrestled with my stubborn mind
Those wayward words would not be re-confined;

I sifted through my dream for fractured thoughts,
desperate that the night should count for nought,
That I might yet revive that leaping power
In the cloistered confines of Rapanzel’s tower;

But waking thought, disabled, can’t regain
the memories my sleeping mind retains:
my cluttered mind unable to repeat 
the simple truths that I have found in sleep.

Etienne Muller



“Please understand me when I speak of this::
I love your soul, that holds my soul in bliss,
I love your lips, delighting in my kiss...
I do but hate your moral edifice”

“My words are rash! In truth, I do not hate,
I have no right; forgive my vocal haste.
But ever are our motives in debate,
Where you are liberal I leave naught to waste”

“And visa-versa as the case may be,
In righteousness we differ - don’t you see?
‘Though striving for the same morality,
Our diagrams of Truth do not agree...”

The watching wise man sighs and turns away.
‘Love’s Latest Tragedy: a moral play...

Michael Muller



The last addiction of the Banquet Hall
When music, wine and women cease to thrill
- Is scholarship. When all is fed and full
The glutton mind for lore is hungry still.

My youthful appetite once whet
Through shelves of ripening books I madly ate,
Consuming works of experts old and new
Who peddle lies they half-believe are true.

Thus contradicting flavours filled my mind
Rendering science lame, religion blind.
Explain why ‘expertise’ - if not a game
Refutes its peers, when all should know the same.

So like a sleuth I questioned every work
And straightened each bent truth that tried to shirk
Its duty to maintain its rightful place
- And by this toil returned their lies to grace.

I was a master glutton in my time,
Could stomach every kind of verse and rhyme
And munch the dry old scientific fare
But now my belly has gone slack with care.

“I can’t contain the lore of man,” I sigh
“Nor learn the merest part before I die.
There’s so much pastry all around the pie,
Give me the plum and let the rest go by...”

My belly-mind was bettered by the feat
And now in modest measure do I eat
And chew it well, and thoroughly digest
- A little scripture, aye, and leave the rest.

Michael Muller


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