The Tree

He sits beneath the acacia tree
Where once he sat with her called she
She who filled his heart with love
She who now resides above
She who loved him everyway
She who helped him through the day
She who gave him children two
One who now resides with you
She to whom he gave his all
She who made him feel so tall
She whose touch he no longer feels
Who isn’t there to share the meals
O how he misses her called She
He sits and waits beneath the tree.

©JoeW – The Tree…2021

Saturday in the dull….

Saturday afternoon is a dull time when it rains
Nothing much passing my window save the odd car
And they probably pass at the rate of one an hour
Such is village life during this blasted pandemic.

The brown leaves of the beech hedge outside my front window
Can always be seen right through at this early time in Spring
But the hydrangea growing up the wall by the front door
Is already well on the way to looking fully green and splendid.
Soon its will be covered in beautiful creamy coloured lace caps
And the buddleias are already searching for attention.

There is a Victoria plum tree in my back garden that was my wife’s
Her sister gave it to her for a birthday present six years ago
The next year our daughter, Victoria, died and now so has my wife
There has never been as much blossom on the tree as this year.
Is that a message or am I clutching at straws! Who knows…
Saturday afternoon is a dull time when it’s wet and you’re lonely.

©JoeW – Saturday in the dull…2021

The Final Part…

The Final Part…

He’s retired now himself, my boy Clem
And home to the cottage he came
For Libby, his wife and Clem look for us now
It’s back’ards but things ain’t the same.
And we all live a life of quiet now
In the village where the river’s in spate.
We watch from the garden as the days just go by
Rarely leaving through our creaky gate.

But it’s good to be here in the village
With our kinfolk not too far away
With Libby and Clem here beside us
It’s different but the clouds aren’t just grey.
There will come a time when I shuffle off too
But not too soon I hope, not too soon
For there’s lots of odd things that I’ve still yet to do
Not wrapped up in some useless cocoon.

©Joe Wilson - The Final Part…2021
A final part to ‘Dreaming of home’ and ‘More thoughts of Home.’
All three were written in a style similar to O. Henry
[William Sidney Porter (1862 – 1910)]

…and yet when finally I drew back the curtain, life was still there ticking away as always. For in truth, ‘time really does wait for no one’. My self-all-absorbing grief, is only a very small pothole along the much larger global road of life. I don’t care, it is my pothole.

I touch her things, my fingers gently passing over her wedding ring and her watch, both of which she had worn every day since we had married some forty eight years earlier. It has been four months since she was stolen away from me, she was taken away in an ambulance and I never saw her again. Even worse I never got to speak to her again. That is what I miss most of all, I will never hear her voice again. It could be, ‘can you pass me the butter knife please?’ or ‘have you read this article in the paper?’ or ‘I love you.’ I will never hear her say anything again. That breaks my heart.

Potholes get repaired but I am like the local council and their repair schedule, I will take forever.

Blank walls…

I miss you so very much my skin aches for your touch

The gentle contact of lovers and experience mixed

But the year of heartache severed the whole

And the love in my heart cannot now be fixed.

I lost my girl so cruelly to the ills of life

The best half of two was you, my wife

Now I sit here and stare at blank painted walls

Where I’ll sit for the rest of my life.

How sad life can be, how stark and cold

How riddled with grief can we cope

How lonely the life that gets left behind

Close your curtains, abandon all hope.

©JRW – Blank walls…2021


It was becoming a bad habit

Constantly drinking himself to oblivion.

Four Roses was fine Kentucky Straight bourbon

But it couldn’t go on, forever drunk

Vomiting like a slob, covering himself in puke

Waking in the early hours covered in snot and sweat.

He had to get to grips before the grips got him

Time to put the bottle away before he couldn’t

Life was once so straightforward

And then it wasn’t.

©Joe Wilson – Wasted…2021

…and having moved on, where to go

His active brain just did not know

And so, he tried to think a while

An hour passed and then a smile.

He`d take up writing, yes, he would

Able, or not, deciding he could

And so, he took his brain and quill

Then sat for hours, thinking still.

The page was bare, and hunger called

At lack of progress, he was appalled

But after lunch he did decree

The page would fill, just wait and see.

The lunch was long, the wine did flow

Refusing top-ups, he got slow

And so, he slept all afternoon

Finally woken but far too soon.

His head was sore, his own fault, true

But nausea called, twas to the loo

Where all his sorrows left his gut

More care in what goes in he`ll put.

No words he`d writ, no words at all

This writing lark was not a ball

He couldn`t put the thoughts together

Drunkenness made it heavy weather!

So, he would try another day

To put on paper things to say

And nauseous still, he went to bed

To rest his unproductive head.

©JRW2021…Writing when drunk.

A love so true…

And though she who I so loved is now glorious free

I still feel the lightness of her love surrounding me

For as I have reduced by so much painful sorrow

Yet she warms my heart to help me find tomorrow.

And realise I how great a gift that I was granted

A love so true could never be supplanted.

©JRW2021…A love so true.


The hardest part is the loneliness

Where once the room seemed so full

Then suddenly, you left the room

And all that’s left seems just dull.

Alone with all my memories

Of a lifetime spent with you

We knew the time would come one day

And so it did — but far too soon.

I can barely think a single thought

Without you play some part

And though you are now ash and dust

You’re always in my heart.

I write these words down only to ease the ache in my chest

The words that can’t do justice to the half of us that was best.


A new kind of Autumn

Darkness came

Autumn descended

Brightness left

Summer ended.

The virus lingered

People were dying

Autumn this year

Has many crying.

The third act in the year

Such bright red hue

This year – Corona

And the two metre queue.

With no end in sight

People are frustrated

Millions in lockdown

Truly deflated.

©Joe Wilson – A new kind of Autumn…2020