Carol Sheppard


Yellow, what colour did you used to be
when you were young and fresh?

A sort of powdery white
before the fade set in.
Stained by the tears,
lost in the years,
now a dirty sight.

Gone is my true colour,
that once was me in yesteryear



You left me shipwrecked,
Scuttled and scuppered on the silver sea.
A castaway thrown overboard,
You jettisoned away from me.
Leaving me as discarded cargo,
Like floating jetsam,
Waiting like flotsam marked for later recovery.

I waited to be salvaged from the sea bed.
Waited for the caisson to raise me.
But you never came.


My nest is aloft
Precariously perched
Held by brittle sticks


Home is bread rising
The smell of coffee brewing
Warm feel of the heart

If I were a windmill


If I were a windmill

If I were a windmill
I’d wish my arms hadn’t rusted
and that I had sails to spin,
that I could turn my face
into the wind again and sing.

But my body is broken,
decayed beyond repair.
My legs can hardly hold my weight,
my eyes can only stare.

Aged others around me gathered,
listen to the distant bells peal,
silent, patient, knowing,

When I die I want it to be in Autumn.

I would ask that my weakened body
be laid beneath the trees
so I could see the chocolate and caramel canopy
above me, inhale the russets and the reds
and marvel at the yellows and golds.
Feel the flutter of leaves falling
like butterfly wings soft against my skin.

I could watch the sun filter through the branches
while the leaves crumple beneath me.

And as my eyelids close and the darkness comes
the trees would fall asleep with me.


  When I die, I want it to be in Autumn

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