STAY AWAKE(A Villanelle)

Eternity is like the Advent Wreath;
no creep of death, no withering away;
continuous in love, forever green.

Against the values that will always keep,
our jewelled lives will last a single day.
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath.

Above the mobile phone’s demanding bleep,
the Voice we may not listen to, will stay
continuous in love, forever green.

The Breath of Life will mist the TV screen,
hold still the teeming way; we’ll hear Him say,
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath.

From darkened hills, the promised dawn will creep;
the vigilant alone, will see this day,
continuous in love, forever green.

Two thousand years, yet still, we mustn’t sleep;
a blink of time; not long to stay awake.
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath,
continuous in love, for ever green.

© Marion Sharville


Space, edged with the jagged of mountains;
the jumble of roof-tops,
the embroidery of trees,
flecked with the calligraphy of birds…

accepted graffiti.

This sphere of wondrous design enfolds our tiny lives.

Such an array of drama and beauty, ever changing
across the nursery walls of our growing time;
the challenge of dawn,
wind-chased puff of clouds,
grumble of storms,
blaze of sunsets.

Every miracle different…a ‘one off’

but behind the passing scenes,
lies the pure eternal blue of Mary’s gown.

The sun rests behind the dark backcloth of the night.
Stars chink through the fabric,
plotting the course of the dreaming lovers’ moon
gliding silently through time to greet
and touch the hem of the new dawn.

© Marion Sharville


The Faculty of Life regrets and fears
the package we’ve delivered is worse for wear.
It started off quite clean behind the ears
but found parts of the journey hard to bear.

The exuberance of youth first sped him on,
the outer wrapping strong and still intact
but “Follow orders, lad, now go along,
the years of war will put a stop to that.”

His mates who fell, still live inside his head
as homeward bound to strangers, he now goes.
Responsibilities and cares make up his bed
back in a life that he no longer knows.

The solitude, despite surrounding love;
a bubble that no pin can ever burst,
has changed his way of thinking; how to move
with caution, a skill in which he is well versed.

Persistence, nurtured through the killing time,
prepares the way for Hope to struggle through
as shattered lives break rank and cross the line;
to a field of bitter memories, in which to start anew.

The outer wrap is torn but underneath,
the inner man stores courage; some to spare.
Hope, the eternal optimist, will breathe
and fan the flame of youth that once was there.

Time has patched him up with unseen thread;
embroidered golden moments on his heart
to balance things twixt living and the dead
but those closed eyes remain a vital part.

The condition of this package is a mess.
We did our very best to keep him safe
but the Faculty of Life must now confess
it was his inner strength that helped to
reach this place;
the place which now, will grant him well-earned rest
and damaged goods or not… he will be blessed.

© Marion Sharville

FIREWORKS by 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?

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