a meeting graven deep in the recall
so scents and colours you cannot repress
the place the time all seem to coalesce
the heat was summer but the season fall
and from this distance no detail is small
since paths were crossed and cannot now regress
back out of meaning life itself must bless
what we have been and forbid us to bawl
now roads will take us far but not so far
that voices cannot take us back in time
to where the light first taught us how to touch
our minds to plastic shapes that had no scar
before to hope was made a sort of crime
and any knowledge had become too much

no grieving then but seize the darting joys
that pass like summer birds above the lake
enjoy the time and all the things you make

ignore the pain avoid the childish noise
see how the breezes still the reeds do shake
no grieving then but seize the darting joys

before they pass on to new girls and boys
as life requires since every reed must break
eternity's the dream that we mistake
no grieving then but seize the darting joys

the dark disaster broken by harsh light
patter of voices sound of running feet
these lives that ended they were not so sweet
that does not matter for we had no right
to trample these brief hopes in the hot night
ignoring the short cry of mi nu dweet
the blotless orders always seem so neat
not so the blood and ordure in our sight
the noble man no brute can't bear the blame
see how the sorrow weighs upon his face
adding it seems another dozen years
we will not think of yet another name
the one whose presence we can't seem to trace
who sums up all our terrors and our fears

we take the signs of spring and call them grand
each knows they'll weep some day to see them pass
immortal symbols set by mortal hand

words tell us little but they have to stand
for all our knowledge of the wind on grass
we take the signs of spring and call them grand

since each bright sigil comes at sun's command
and all together form a joyous mass
immortal symbols set by mortal hand

reflection of the heart sprung from the land
for one short season then they're gone alas
we take the signs of spring and call them grand

inadequate the words so brief and bland
lacking in strength and grace like so much gas
immortal symbols set by mortal hand

need so much more for sentiments they fanned
their colours cannot stay within the glass
we take the signs of spring and call them grand
immortal symbols set by mortal hand

there's no occasion to admit defeat
beneath an empty sky of callous blue
in this proud season when we must renew
so many hopes our senses cannot treat
these many messages of the hard street
as what they are and the time's overdue
for easy answers so the young must rue
what they can't know and old ones lose the beat
we change the era as we change our socks
in solemn mode but yet with little thought
of any deeper meaning in the act
one moment free the next cast on the rocks
with every motion seeming overwrought
our species lost now between truth and fact

he saplings in the yard are in first leaf

their spring has now begun but it is late

maples they are and ruddy in relief



we ask the world for hope and no mischief

to strike us as we come out through the gate

the saplings in the yard are in first leaf



the pleasant season but we know it's brief

yet we are forced each year to a long wait

maples they are and ruddy in relief



time strikes us now as a harsh nasty thief

we look in pain at every passing date

the saplings in the yard are in first leaf



but life's revival brings no great relief

we're in the season of pain and debate

maples they are and ruddy in relief



all they can do now is recall hard grief

not reconcile us to eventual fate

the saplings in the yard are in first leaf

maples they are and ruddy in relief

no one who feels the changing seasons' bite
can be assured that growth is purely good
since each tall tree each ancient of the wood
that waits there leafless through the winter night
with chilly taproot is in the same plight
as you might be and has for long withstood
the final pain in ways you wish you could
but it wont matter there'll be a last rite
spring is too short and one day sap won't rise
to renew bud and energise new leaf
but for the moment all we have is time
and universes open to our eyes
the products none of them of our belief
while every limb towards the sun must climb

hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
those eager plantings of last summer's heat
they are the voices of our dearest dead

we have not asked just what the blossoms said
nor listened long to the black loamy beat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed

have no regret nor signal any dread
their meaning is not evil it is sweet
they are the voices of our dearest dead

returning to us in the garden spread
in sudden colour in the light complete
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed

each shocking signal sent right to the head
and heart that with old sorrow is replete
these are the voices of our dearest dead

gone now but leaving us with souls full fed
since life refuses to accept defeat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
they are the voices of our dearest dead

this is the choice that we defy the night
for a short time and keep alive a spark
timid perhaps but worthy to remark
a simple thing of note to honest sight
rejection of the vast kingdom of blight
a wisdom that calls on us to skylark
with laughter to ignore the final dark
empowering the fragile human light
each one is a beginning we are told
to be recorded and to be advised
of what's around below and what's above
to find out what is clay and what true gold
what's best admired and what's best despised
the fruit of all our hope and all our love

not given much to metaphor as fact
the student struggles to relate her tale
each sentence on its own will sag or fail
the effort turns out bloated not compact
her model is the sermon and the tract
and writing comes to her like time in gaol
the style is cold the images are stale
and the whole enterprise with pain is packed
the reader wants so much to go outside
and take his whirling thoughts for a long walk
but finishing the job is all his pride
so from the horrid task he dare not balk
no leave nor yet excuse he has to plead
so the next essay he picks up to read

this is the verb that we declare must stand
for place and season taken out of time
by our decision rendered full sublime
by simplest action of creative hand
uttered each morning by serene command
the sound itself is richer than each chime
of golden bells tuned to a perfect prime
while the symbolic meaning is so grand
all that we say can be reduced to this
concision of significance and sound
where every symbol strains into the light
yet not a thing is here that we could miss
even if we retreat to harder ground
since we have turned our backs upon the night

out of the light some errant hope may creep
to stay harsh fears and keep in stern control
those bitter terrors which reign over sleep
since we are many miles short of our goal
nor can a single one afford the toll
for all our efforts we have come up short
one of our heads might yet adorn a pole
there is no justice in our rulers' court

our sense of history does not go deep
nor yet much further than the old school roll
for we want all our stories on the cheap
and honour is not something we extol
we want the stallion but not the foal
and find it is so easy to distort
the symbols that are written on the scroll
there is no justice in our rulers' court

in coming dark we will react like sheep
whose bleating the kind butcher must console
before he throws each body on the heap
or drinks another beer from his large bowl
the watcher might just find the whole thing droll
or take the scheduled slaughter for good sport
did he not see the shepherd on patrol
there is no justice in our rulers' court
prince you believe your subject has no soul
and can say nothing here of great import
but without him you cannot soon be whole
there is no justice in our rulers' court

this is the place where pigeons play their games
untroubled by the large ungainly folk
who never have been seen to get the joke

birds **** on heroes and on noble dames
that's not a fact that we want to evoke
this is the place where pigeons play their games

here where our leaders make their sordid claims
upon our hearts and liars go for broke
old beggars note again the stinking smoke
this is the place where pigeons play their games

we catch the ***** at night on the black road
just shovel them into the waiting bag
until the sweat pools and your spirits flag

above the stars signal in arcane code
while you wipe down with an old smelly rag
we catch the ***** at night on the black road

that leads us back to where the waters flowed
past all the places where we let hope sag
back into swamp where memories might nag
we catch the ***** at night on the black road

you haven't got the sense to make things short
when length must matter brevity's the key
to bridge the immense gap from is to ought
which many of us do not want to see
since clarity of vision makes us flee
straight to the place where no one wants to hide
afraid of all the facts that cannot be
but truth and passion have to coincide

 your choices do not lead us to support
the cause that we learnt at our parents' knee
when we were told that it was dearly bought
and at that time all things seemed to agree
with what we wanted and no absentee
masters abroad were eager to deride
nor wail and whimper like a mad banshee
but truth and passion have to coincide

 you think the vessel won't get into port
since nothing you commanded came to be
while those you ordered have to face a court
and some of then will hang from gallows-tree
or lie beneath a dark and angry sea
as fate and anguish either may decide
since neither time nor  force will hear your plea
but truth and passion have to coincide

 prince you have given cause to disagree
with all your actions but you've shown esprit
the problem is you've chosen the wrong side
the time has come to fight or else to flee
but truth and passion have to coincide

For stale appearance I don't give a fig
since I won't see my friend for quite some while
but wit and humour always are in style
and I have grown to like this sort of gig.
Put on some hair, the deal is not so big
as you imagine. I do not revile
the belly laugh, nor yet the honest smile
since I am me beneath the longest wig.
In prose or verse the sentiment is true
that we're the grace that we have got to lend
to each occasion where the good may meet
to speak a while and give good peace its due
in wintertime. Still all fine things must end
and happy moments pass with foot too fleet.

love ties its hopes to what it thinks a rock
the furthest outlier of a merry isle
where there's no foe except the hateful clock

your modesty inclines you to take stock
in all those things that we would not revile
love ties its hopes to what it thinks a rock

impervious to any mortal shock
we hope to land and stay for quite a while
where there's no foe except the hateful clock

our ship is not for any normal dock
we've gone way past the ordinary style
love ties its hopes to what it thinks a rock

rejects enclosure will break every lock
and has more power still than any bile
where there's no foe except the hateful clock

though you despise and though you still may mock
our sacred purpose you cannot defile
love ties its hopes to what it thinks a rock
where there's no foe except the hateful clock

have caught the missing moment of each day
taken it prisoner and won't release
a single second of our hope's increase
out of plain fear that golden light could stray
from warming hands that yet know how to play
the human game without harm or caprice
into cold air that would soon end all peace
sending the waiting watchers on their way
have known hard losses and much harder wins
on courses and on surfaces that yield
their gifts to those who have little to tell
though coldest nights save the long count of sins
serving as sustenance across the field
while each survivor wishes they could yell

down south you forget the ripening leaves
and chilly mornings of bright october
no matter for redly a dying time grieves

sunlight on water fair smiling deceives
at dawn the frost shone ******* grass and clover
down south you forget the ripening leaves

yet clock there remains the swiftest of thieves
treating the same way both stayer and rover
no matter for redly a dying time grieves

telling each young one that what he believes
is false never true and patience is over
down south you forget the ripening leaves

slowly to slaughter we marched off the beeves
a suitable task for the youthful drover
no matter how redly a dying time grieves

the adult must measure how much he achieves
in calm acquiescence knowingly sober
down south you forget the ripening leaves
no matter how redly a dying time grieves

forbear to throw more weight upon the ***
since longer journey we must soon begin
the copper coin that the lone guide shall spin
no better guide through the hardest impasse
since at the end there may be but rough grass
and all our commons could turn out most thin
still none of that our better hope's to win
leaving our enemies in the morass
the hardest victory is still the first
when no experience is on our side
but suffering so all we know is pain
so we must say this has to be the worst
in largest part just to protect our pride
but also to account for your huge gain

we chose at last the path out of deep night
through tangled vines and withes into clean air
nothing we gained came to us just by right

what we'd been told was that the facts would bite
each normal mind and send us to despair
we chose at last the path out of deep night

not with relief but knowing that a fight
would have to come and that no one would care
nothing we gained came to us just by right

instead we seemed the victims of some spite
from distant past inheritors of fear
we chose at last the path out of deep night

although each thought that hope was truly slight
the only thing we had to do was dare
nothing we gained came to us just by right

we were the folk throughout bereft of light
who never thought the process could be fair
we chose at last the path out of deep night
nothing we gained came to us just by right

no meaning in these texts that is not bright
even in caverns that have known no sun
nor any warming heat since world begun
their sense is clarity their essence light
each word is set to open up in flight
as avian wisdom that we could not shun
even rock-bound its glories seem to stun
the wary heart with knowledge of the right
so having learnt a simple truth we turn
our faces to the task that now seems plain
to uncurl horrors and restore the chief
dependency of each old mind to earn
the wages of such learning once again
in this cold season of the fallen leaf

the peadove in the cage with healing wing
is fed and watered given proper care
but other birds have better cause to sing

in open freedom far beyond the ring
of human fences when we who now spare
the peadove in the cage with healing wing

have made the choice to take away the sting
of what was cruel in this whole affair
but other birds have better cause to sing

about the matters that our causes bring
and so their voices carry on the air
while peadove in the cage with healing wing

must be imprisoned though fed like a king
lacking all liberty and full of fear
but other birds have better cause to sing

upon the day we choose this bird to spring
out of its lodge and back into the the air
the peadove in the cage with healing wing
but other birds have better cause to sing

the fraction of the truth that now remains
within the bounds of what we are to speak
is current language words sodden and weak
lacking in power nothing now explains
the meaning of the anguish and the pains
that each had taken before these grey bleak
crowds of oppression forbade us to seek
the honest answers upon hills or plains
a light at noon would show no honest folk
in any corner of a world grown wild
with deepest passion of forgotten art
needing desire and raging for the yoke
to be laid on each grown person a child
once more but coals of hope burn in each heart

believe the voices falling down the rift
of fading memory all lost to time
recall the faces touched with soot and grime
in days so clear and calm they seemed to drift
through subtle air and now all is too swift
hardly a moment between every chime
the downslope now but we were on the climb
and had not valued the taste of the gift
so here the choice is made and in the cold
dark of the rainy afternoon each deep
cutting word is truly cruel in its burn
the message is expected we turn old
and each day must bring reasons more to weep
even this day at eve of sunreturn

all softer magics fall before the lie
that eases into minds and dulls all taste
beneath its glamour we ignore the sky

where carrion birds in masses all now fly
above the lands that swiftly go to waste
all softer magics fall before the lie

we watch the largest rivers all run dry
and wonder just what pain we have embraced
beneath its glamour we ignore the sky

no one's ambitions here would move so high
now our best memories shall be erased
all softer magics fall before the lie

that all will soon be better by and by
when good and sacred words will be enplaced
beneath its glamour we ignore the sky

for far too long and now no honest eye
is left to note the urgent need for haste
all softer magics fall before the lie
beneath its glamour we ignore the sky

the message failed it was not sent

our golden gospel dies unheard

another paradise deferred



on other missions we are bent

for stranger purposes conferred

the message failed it was not sent



to where we wanted where we meant

the sign to go each silver word

fell into silence was deterred

the message failed it was not sent

the turning circle of the years

is so set up that we must fail

must fall into the grinding gears



give up and go with one last wail

lift up our eyes and see our friends

heads bent with tears and then set sail



there's no great purpose that commends

itself to us no message sent

in the pale wintry light that bends



upon our heads and won't relent

lying on the floor in solemn bars

where the sole word is discontent



at night the clouds will hide bright stars

what we have managed is to slowly fail

out of the passion where we did not mark

each fallen moment nor discern the stark

announcement of the coming winter gale

and so were lost now this message is stale

lacking all force and having no more spark

than a dead candle yet we must embark

on one more journey out beyond the pale

to where the signal has not ever gone

that says just what we are or who we were

and thus sets limits on what we might do

that way we're told the battle might be won

or ought to be if only we would dare

step out and act as if the world were new

in the damp corner of the morning yard

where grey and quiet many secrets wait

this is the time when nature stand unbarred



not yet for us is life or fortune marred

by force of life or family or state

in the damp corner of the morning yard



where not a bird or beast now stands on guard

all fast asleep and seeming just to wait

this is the time when nature stands unbarred



to wary eyes and life seems not so hard

as we are told and we may now create

in the damp corner of the morning yard



a better world with choices not so hard

with sweeter wisdom and a kinder fate

this is the time when nature stands unbarred



one lucid moment before light is marred

and all our knowledges begin to grate

in the damp corner of the morning yard

this is the time when nature stands unbarred

you think we missed the road when we did not

make the right turn and soon were in the corn

a point of loss but she was not forsworn



and got us out of there to the right spot

no loss of time nor yet reason for scorn

you think we missed the road when we did not



our guide had things to say and just forgot

the proper way you know her heart was torn

but still we passed right by where she was born

you think we missed the road when we did not

you think the boundaries are all the same

imbued with meaning by the hand of time

not records of some old forgotten crime

but guarantees the world is safe and tame

that there are limits set to hate and flame

so we keep back the fury and the grime

of human nature and wall in the slime

of all our hatred that is the full game

now miracles come extra that's the rule

you must expect as we deploy each troop

of brazen rescuers who'll save the day

in proper form and manage to stay cool

keep things in order and then all regroup

off to one side while others come to play

take this and jell it as remembered light

one simple gesture laughing at a joke

in middle afternoon and at one stroke

you've got it down and kept it in plain sight

when all the other moments take their flight

or disappear behind the darkest cloak

of all forgetting where the world is broke

but yet we act to make things come out right

vision is sure and clear when you are young

so slow to fade but still the edges pale

we can't recall the colour of the stone

on the south wall nor where the laundry hung

long years have passed and recollections fail

still there is crystal fire within the bone

not unexpected even kings must die

it was no secret everyone had heard

there was no cloud across the winter sky



you sense the shaping know that what went by

though it was sudden was when it occurred

not unexpected even kings must die



at their due time emit their one last sigh

while many gathered hoping for some word

there was no cloud across the winter sky



no final opening of one bright eye

not a hoarse whisper we had long inferred

not unexpected even kings must die



in a bright room with no friend there to cry

a century's tears nor declare absurd

there was no cloud across the winter sky



you have to dance as if you were to fly

a man no more but a returning bird

not unexpected even kings must die

there was no cloud across the winter sky