The gardener once knelt down to rub two sticks together ,
he watched the flames crackle ,
and warmed his hands against its embers. glow , .
More wood would be needed to burn this dead brach vine ,
That never bore its name.
thick black smoke enough to choke a man bellowed. from its. being ,
A vine pruned only to leave a stone cold sodden heart .
So thick the smoke it brought a tear Unto my very eye ,
So black my sin a sickle or reaper could not save ,
this fickle branch from its flame.
For what is dead is not for the harvest and must be cast into the
fire ,
And what is worth keeping pruned back for a flower to reign .
For what is a man who has no peace ,
Or joy in sorrow ,
Or patience with his friends . ?
If love cometh from Friendship and in that love there is no
Sorrow or pain .
Or trust , or even faith to light the way .
A couple held hands in Church ,
Not bothered by the flame that burns deep ,
Pruning their lives so sin can't cast its. Stain .
And can it be then ,
That I. a sinner trust ,
In a gardener that prunes and tears all
My dead branches down to dust ,  
Thrown into a flame
That ,
On a hill ,
On a cross ,
This flower might bud ,
and it's. beauty forever remain .

When. Summer.s. evenings. fall. ,
And leaves. Of. Green turn to gold ,
and fires. In haths are stoked ,
and the sun gets lazy , .
Darkness steals its. Light .
Then  The churches are full ,
and each voice sings herolds. Winter and gusts. Of hale . ,
In hymns of thankfulness to God for a harvest .
Tins piled high for those in need are never to be forgotten .
A sermon on stones and seeds and chaff blown by the wind ,
Only then
The harvester will call .
Ring the bell
When in your beds ,
Or walking home
On rocky soil  don't. stay ,
For in  the spring we dance and forget we sow out seeds for  another day
For on stones like chaff ,
Lay seeds on rocks ,
and gravel get blown away .
by hale and gale ,
Wind and rain
Like time will pass.
And what was lost ,
Can never be gathered
When the harvester draws near.

With seven thousand on each side ,
No man or beast would be spared or butchered alive ,
On England's. green yet ****** field ,
Harold's  soldiers. Would not yeald .
Men standing with corpse still shield to shield , no room to fall into
Fields of blood ,
Williams men yet told the cry ' our King is dead ' so fooled the lie ,
the Saxon hordes. Many advanced , the cry
Harold's. Men butchered like dogs,
Picked out one by one the English line broken ,
And Arrows fair filled the sky's to no man to shield defend ,
Harold's men fell like flys ,
And England's crown alas to foreign field ,
Conquered by Nobel steed ,
and cunning plan .
Now this is not a tale of woe for to foreign field England's lands
did toil ,
But a fairy tale of love .
Actin passed its  dark Saxon foe to boldly go to my miosin ,
And feel the pump inside ,
Again and again they meet tearing fibres as they dance
and proteins and sleep keep the Saxons away,
To shred ,
and bulk ,
and feed this land .
Like every day when dawn will call ,
Run with the foxes ,
hear the call ,
Break down those dark Saxon walls ,
Seven thousand armed with ****** axe ,
But you have actin and Miosin spitting blood for you .
Twenty strong reps ,
And curl and curl ,
There's iron in your blood ,
For those Saxon walls each day must break ,
Pick up your sword each dawn shall take .

Just for a moment imagine .
Just for a second ,
no , just for a day..

Just for a thought if for thirty minutes we were of one cell .
What if with one pill and water that life could then vanish and die ?

What if that cell could then become two ,
then out of it ,
Two arms ,
Two legs ,
tiny fingers ,
Tiny thumbs ,
Tiny hands ,
and toes  .
and a little head .
What if that head developed a mind of its own ,
and a consciousness.of its own ,
It's first cry for its mothers milk ,
It would be like a bird breaks forth into song ,
for one piece of bread ,
as the day breaks and clouds move forth to let a rising sun shine as if
for the first time ,
This cradle of life ,
Will one day learn to write , and it's words and thoughts provoke ,
from one cell unite
Just to be alive .

There was a picture house where Mamgu and Dadcu first met ,
beside a swirling brook ,
Where an ice cream girl met a charming man with a smile
at the interval of the days picture show  

In a time gone by with no internet , snap chat or Twitter .
Just polite conversation ,
Just a peck upon a cheek ,
And all that's left is  a bridge underneath waters still roll ,
a quiet stream ,
Where waters flow  beside green pastures and hills .
And a chapel not far away where Mamgu and Dadcu where
Married ,where  my Mother and Farther tied their knot fifty seven years ago .
And it all began with a smile and an ice cream in the Capital
Picture show ,so many years ago .  .

So. Who made you Lord of this manor that your tables and chairs
be dumped at the end of my road ?
That every mattress you find may be handed down ,
From your lorry , car , van ,
and dumped at the end of my street .
Who made you king of your hill ,
So to trash my neighbor hood with tv s. no charity wants ,
With sacks of books and little girls toys.
Left out for cats and dogs . .

What makes you think for a while,
All that money to the council will go ,
To pick up your sofas and boxes down the end of my road .
Please don't leave your sofas
It's not hard to understand,
It's selfish , cruel , and heartless ,
a blight on this once great land ,
With tables books and chairs .


You gods of your own small world ,
Who trash and burn how you please ,
Like nothing can ever touch you ,
You damage make waste our land,
When once was neat and tidy ,
I was proud to call this home ,
And Charity's pick up the tab .
What a selfish thing to do .

,