Yep boring because I write so much
About my love of nature
About living on the edge
The acrid but sweet smell of wood smoke
And the comforting flickering fire
The bubbling *** just on the edge of the flames
Sweet music to the ears
I sit in contentment with my glass
A single malt of course
Just the sounds of the night
Eerie to some
But sweet music to my ears
And a smelly wet dog curled at my feet
In this place where I truly belong
I don't need the friparies of life
Simplicity is fine
Just give me the sun, give me the rain
Give me that smelly dog
And life will be perfect

A few small things in a bag
A good canoe and a paddle
A river unknown
That is all I ask for
My 10x8 tarp for my shelter
Fragrant pine twigs for my bed
My alarm the sweet dawn chorus
Of a thousand singing birds
The fragrance of the woodsmoke
As I watch the sun sink down
The messages in the moon and stars
Before in sweet repose I bid goodnight
BUT

So few places of Tranquility left

The body now old and worn
But my mind is still sound
To many broken bones from my early years
Rugby the game that I loved
Still love
But rugby back then in army
Was a different game
The sly punch in the testicles
Punch in the mouth
Well that was all part of the game
Later you would share a beer with the guy
Who broke your fingers
No, no we'll never grow old
Until you wake one morning
And feel the pain
In long past shattered bones

A cabin
Two small rooms off grid
All I will ever need
No TV or radio
Just a a small dog at my feet
Mollie
A note pad and a bottle of ink
With an old fashioned scratcher pen
,(because so few now know how to write)
But all I need are the sound capped waves
To make me realize what life's about

Yes, sleep in innocence for you know not yet the life
That will come to you
Yes, sleep in innocence
Because by age 12 you will be beset by violence
Live by street law and the power of the knife
Age 14 and you might be doing time
For Robbery, drugs or some other crime
Now children here is the bitter truth
By age 16 out of a gang of ten
2 of you will lie on the mortuary slab
Sleep in innocence children of the ghetto

The death of the Newfoundland Regiment*

They attacked after the Hawthorne mine was blown
But it never saved them
Newfoundland boys then crossed the line
And death was there to claim them
Most never made it to the starting trench
Now choked with dead and dying
For just four hundred yards away
German machine guns were barking
There is a place called Dead Tree
Where we were not to tread
For it now marks the place
Of so many Newfoundland dead
Beaumont Hamel now the resting place
Of boys so far from home
Beaumont Hamel now the place
Where heroic Newfoundland ghosts
Will ever roam