What will become of me?
Where will i go?
When the high hill paths are closed to me,
Escape, blocked in with snow.

Shall i now live in barren tundra?
And wait for new spring thaws.
Or anticipate the thunder,
So board up all my doors.

To risk the high hill paths,
At this late time of year.
Or barricade myself in thoughts,
Squalid solitude; and fear.

See one path leads to heaven,
And one leads straight to hell.
Do you know what will become of me?
I Promise i wont tell.

There must be rain and lots of rain,
Enough to fill the river Seine.
Till Mrs Frog and Mr Toad,
Will choose to risk the night again.

See, Mrs frog is kind of queer,
She sits the same spot most of year.
Amphibifun! An avid leaper,
But home again when daylight near.

Then Mr toad, a grumpy winner,
An eagle eyed reptilian sinner.
He hates the rain and lost a leg,
When something fancied him for dinner!.

But on that rare and lucky night,
When circumstance and weather right.
These loyal suitors meet at last,
As Cupid’s spell is at its height.

Five years have past, they’re still together,
Meeting frequent, sometimes never.
But neither gives up on the other,
Not storm, not tide, nor any weather.

What loyalty? What love? What deeds?,
Take place amongst those silent reeds.
Frog and Toad; he hates the rain!
But love and patience still exceeds.

When old age takes you, years hence, moves, misshapes and betwixt you into mortal parts,
Where once lost memories and thoughts, take centre stage and regret, like famished rodents, gnaw upon your withered heart.
The bodied cage, worn out, divided over many leagues and years,
Time is shorter than a happy smile, so do not waste it with your tears.
  
The mind is frail, yet time and exit frailer still,
Condemned to lonely wonder on that high precipice of early dawn and sky lark shrill.
Regrets prove plenty, akin to timeless grains of sand,
left strewn across the salty shore, which cause abrasive sores both in spirit and in humble man.

The mind again, yes that oldest tempest foe,
Who tries to cheat you of your common wits.
The blind man sees which way to go,
The liars tongue is made of gold, the wise man thinks but never sits.

You search, yet fumble all the same, time and anguished time again, through nameless worn out keys,
To invisible shackles, which are as boundless as the raging seas.
Those spellbound, never ending fetters, ***** and chains,
Like endless seasons dance upon, and tread beneath untrodden moss of natures rains.

You MUST! Leave at once, and elevate your tired being, BEYOND! The confines of our fragile mind,
Free yourself, unbind regrets, mistakes and worries, and leave old burdens far behind.
Or else risk damnation and eternal loss, the final mystery unravelled,
Abandon all you seek of yesterday, and set upon that road less travelled.

We are all but struggling insects, crawling on the face of God entire,
Until that fateful day, at final close of stormy play, we all succumb, relief and vigorous delights await.
To gentle lay and leave our mortal coil upon the wire,
Our aching soul, abandoned, to the wingless, shrouded, hands of wicked fate.

A breath, a whistle on the wind spelt their fate,
From Thudding factories they came of iron, copper steel and slate.
This time to huff and puff in the face of a different wind, blowing in from the continent.
their hearts like lions pride, though ragged trousers and mine born bent.

No names ,no land nor favours here,
though folk back home might find it queer.
Imagination confined, never exposed,
To the acts and esprit of those forgotten heroes.

Late in the year and in the night,
A ghostly giant came into sight,
It slowly trailed and bulged the ancient causeway,
Intent on hiding out of harms way.

A magnificent beast from the age of sale,
Came into port to shelter from the winter storms and gales,
It groans and creaks from 50 sheets and rattles,
Like a wounded whale with its brass decor and iron chattels.

The body built of wood and steel,
With copper wrapped around it's keel,
To guard its cargo of rarest spice, silks and precious metals,
It puffed and steamed along like a giant boiled kettle.

It has travelled far with many scars,
Battled continents and violent seas with ease,
From the cape around the horn,
And onto the west indies.

It seeks and finally finds its place to rest and moor,
But alas the storm that winter did not pause,
It reached and breached the gates and harbour walls,
The fox was in through failing doors.

It attacked the beauty in its finest fettles,
Her belly broke from bow to stern,
It sharply shifts and lists while the candles burn,
Then sinks down to the bottom where it groans and settles.

It's fate and history long forgotten,
But for local shanty hymns,
The bulk is left but timbers rotten,
With cut back beams and withered limbs.

From endless tides it now resides,
Out of site and local memory,
Through rusted tears it counts the years,
Underneath a sea of nettles.

Stress and rage are like a lightbulb you see,
Best left on,
No point in calming yourself between these episodes,
and constantly switching between the two or off and on.

Otherwise, like the proverbial lightbulb,
One day your gonna blow.

When you hear the oxen moving, "Pphf PPffh" become one,
And when you see the deer braking; stop, stop blowing.
And when you see the first young buck of the winter grinding, scraping, blowing hot air onto the frozen plains; pause.
I will surely hear a weeping willow cry, call out our names and as we always said this is a good time to die and honour is the noblest cause.