To search the winter lean and long,
for early signs of coming spring,
on snow sprayed fields now all aglow,
  on every little whispered wing,

Tis hardest in this icy air,
alone with frozen thought,
to seek the thaw you asked of me,
when love was freely taught,

In buds of red I wish to hold,
and not my stubborn,
warming glow,
your spring awaits with daffodil,
beneath the wet and melted snow,

I await you dear with frozen breath
eternally I wait for thee
tis I that seek your stubborn glow
your warmth is what will set me free

I take your mind
to yesteryear
when spring came easy then
to take us back to times we know
to love your way
back home again

In simple terms a simple love
I beckon from my frozen hill
to bring you back here in the spring
and not
against your needed will

I wait for you
I wait for thee
*my Sunny Springtime Daffodil

Grass beneath my feet
and soil in my hands,
tipping.
Your lips on mine,
wrapping me around your fingers
and splitting the silence
with anticipation,
falling.
I keep waiting for the world
to one day become still
but you dizzy and confuse me
as if you are a planet
and I am the asteroid
caught in your orbit.

I was the bringer of dawn, pulling the sun
into the sky and allowing my constellation
to fade before His light. I leant against
the edge of darkness and stood, for a moment,
amongst the bright white of Heaven's Throne, deep
chasms of blue circling my feet.
I was the greatest of them all,

He made me the greatest of them all. I
was a prince, the lord of the air. Now,
I am nothing. The shining one, light bearer;
sent to epitomise darkness and evil.
My wings have been blackened by soot and clogged
by smoke - they will never fly again.
I will never see the sun or be free
amongst the stars once more, pushing the sky
around the Earth. I will never feel His
approving hand on my shoulder or resting
on my head. He cast me away as if
I was nothing and cut my hair from my head,
replacing flaxen curls with horns of blackened bone.

The Devil, they call me. The slanderer
who was hurled from heaven to hell. I see myself
in pools of despair: is this who I have become?
Where did the man who shook the earth
with the beat of his wings and make whole countries
tremble go? I made the world a wilderness
and now I'm gone it has been cultivated
into a dull plain of melancholy.
I am nothing without the white brightness
of the night's sky, I was son
of the morning. Venus was my head,
the morning star my heart.
Now, my constellation lies in the ashes
of soul fire because of my foolish pride and envy.