Let go the busy things, the time is right
to lay aside the worry and the fear.
Wind down the day and open to the night.

Dusk softly creeps across and dims the light
and whispering, warns that night will soon be here.
Let go the busy things, the time is right.

The sun does not go down without a fight;
flaunts colours as we watch it disappear.
Wind down the day and open to the night.

The day’s events have stretched you to the height.
Place out of danger, goals that are sincere.
Let go the busy things, the time is right.

The stars will catch your dreams and hold them tight
and keep them bright within each crystal sphere.
Wind down the day and open to the night.

Accept the gift of rest, the morning light,
refreshed with hope, may help to make things clear.
Let go the busy things, the time is right,
wind down the day and open to the night.

© Marion Sharville


Tempting playmate, inviting us in
with your refined saraband of ebb and flow,
like the elegant dances of long ago.

We frolic in your caressing shallows, heedless
of the denizens lurking in the dark depths far
from our paddling feet; a swirling mass; survival hungry.

Your rippled surface reflects the colours of the sky
in deceitful serenity, awaiting the storm;
the tempest which will release your killing power.

The wind, your accomplice, will, with nature’s skill,
craft your waves into rampant sculptures, white-flecked
with spume-ing foam; the frothing of a rabid dog.

Relentlessly you engulf the hapless traveller
in the embrace of death. When fickle wind departs,
you return to your gentle air of innocence.

© Marion Sharville


He was sitting in his wheelchair,
surrounded by his minions;
to me he looked quite ancient
but I soon changed my opinion.

A gleaming Daimler, parked nearby,
his fingers ringed in gold,
did something to my eyesight and
he didn’t look so old.

You’ve heard of ancient ruins,
well I’ve found myself a ‘one’.
Here’s news of a Greek wedding,
I hope you all will come.

The site of the Acropolis
is where I found my Greek
and Mrs Popodopolous
will be my name next week.

© Marion Sharville


and the dog creeps under the piano stool.

Missing the faded beauty of Autumn
we look for more colours as we step
into the murky mists of November.

Duffle-coated against the cold, we watch
the burning effigy of the man
whose memory is rekindled every year.

Lost historic drama put to the torch.

Catherine-wheels and sparklers
entrance the young. Squibs and jumping
crackers provide the edge. Echoing
sounds and sparks fire at the sky.

A bombardment to delight.

Rockets send clusters of stars to burst
into their own beautiful but fleeting galaxies
expanding to nothingness.

Is our own planet just part of a firework display,
wondrous but short-lived?

where will we find a piano stool?

© Marion Sharville


The Vino-bug from the South of France
hops around in a gay sort of frolic.
As it eats nothing else but fermented grapes,
it is a confirmed alcoholic.

© Marion Sharville


The Lumpana has thousands of hairy legs
and keeps on running about
but the back ones run faster than the front
and it ends up inside out.

© Marion Sharville

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