Jun 2012
I stand here by the cliffs I have called home
since before my heart kept time,
and look into the sea, raging beneath my feet.
Each crashing spume spatters my face
with a cascade of tiny droplets,
like a shower of sea sprite kisses upon my cheeks and eyelids.
Through the mist I can just see the sun rising
like a golden disk of inexhaustible fire,
painting the cliff side in its incomparable magnificence.
All the horrors of this life wash away, like our original sin
under the baptismal font of the sea's spray.
Looking at that sun, my spirit soars, and I finally understand
the glory of being free.
Flocks of migratory birds dive and climb above the roaring waves,
soon the puffin shall roost here, for now it is the smaller varieties
that serenade me in my morning revelry.
Everything is gorgeous out here in the mist, every creature and stone
glows with its own undeniable inner light, the cliffs turn into bonfires of beauteous splendor
the surface of the sea paints the flitting reflections on its roiling surface
turning tiny birds into the mirror images of angels
descending from heaven, to greet this misty morning with me.
I ponder jumping off this cliff, as life shall surely never grant such wonder again,
until I hear a voice from over my shoulder, call out, bearing with it the scents
of blood sausage frying, and porridge blended with wildflower honey and blueberries.
My favourite meal, by far. So I take in one more glance, at the slowly rising sun,
turn away from the precipice, listen to the birds call out to me, "Farewell, until tomorrow"
they seem to say. It is moments like this that invigorate the soul, and fill a man
with the desire to live, and persevere, to enjoy one more breakfast with someone
who loves them back with a fervor, that would give the raging sea pause to witness it.
I will whistle if I want to whistle, I do whistle, as I make my way down the treacherous path,
that leads to the warm and welcome bliss, that is a single meal,
on a beautiful late spring morning, with someone who looks forward to seeing you
everyday. Someone who understands love, and commitment far better than I.
Someone like you. Who would kiss me ten times as lovingly, as the droplets of mist.
Just as the sea painted my face like a living canvas,
with the rainbow coloured joyous tears of angels rejoicing.
Someone like me, who deserves far less than life feels is my just share.
I pour the strong scented amber brew, from the *** into my cup, and breath deeply.
The heady aroma of Irish breakfast blend, is like a dose of smelling salts,
waking me from the nights slumbers, reminding me that I am not dreaming,
this misty morning is a true gift, and only a fool would deny the existence of beauty
on a morning such as this.
This is why we toil and strive, mend walls, and patch the roof.
So if we are blessed, we can spend just one such morning, once in this life,
eating food prepared with affection, a strong cup of Twining's,
and the re-energizing aura, of simply being loved.
If there is more than this to life, may I die never knowing it.
For how could heaven ever compare to this morning?
A Burns 2012
since before my heart kept time,
and look into the sea, raging beneath my feet.
Each crashing spume spatters my face
with a cascade of tiny droplets,
like a shower of sea sprite kisses upon my cheeks and eyelids.
Through the mist I can just see the sun rising
like a golden disk of inexhaustible fire,
painting the cliff side in its incomparable magnificence.
All the horrors of this life wash away, like our original sin
under the baptismal font of the sea's spray.
Looking at that sun, my spirit soars, and I finally understand
the glory of being free.
Flocks of migratory birds dive and climb above the roaring waves,
soon the puffin shall roost here, for now it is the smaller varieties
that serenade me in my morning revelry.
Everything is gorgeous out here in the mist, every creature and stone
glows with its own undeniable inner light, the cliffs turn into bonfires of beauteous splendor
the surface of the sea paints the flitting reflections on its roiling surface
turning tiny birds into the mirror images of angels
descending from heaven, to greet this misty morning with me.
I ponder jumping off this cliff, as life shall surely never grant such wonder again,
until I hear a voice from over my shoulder, call out, bearing with it the scents
of blood sausage frying, and porridge blended with wildflower honey and blueberries.
My favourite meal, by far. So I take in one more glance, at the slowly rising sun,
turn away from the precipice, listen to the birds call out to me, "Farewell, until tomorrow"
they seem to say. It is moments like this that invigorate the soul, and fill a man
with the desire to live, and persevere, to enjoy one more breakfast with someone
who loves them back with a fervor, that would give the raging sea pause to witness it.
I will whistle if I want to whistle, I do whistle, as I make my way down the treacherous path,
that leads to the warm and welcome bliss, that is a single meal,
on a beautiful late spring morning, with someone who looks forward to seeing you
everyday. Someone who understands love, and commitment far better than I.
Someone like you. Who would kiss me ten times as lovingly, as the droplets of mist.
Just as the sea painted my face like a living canvas,
with the rainbow coloured joyous tears of angels rejoicing.
Someone like me, who deserves far less than life feels is my just share.
I pour the strong scented amber brew, from the *** into my cup, and breath deeply.
The heady aroma of Irish breakfast blend, is like a dose of smelling salts,
waking me from the nights slumbers, reminding me that I am not dreaming,
this misty morning is a true gift, and only a fool would deny the existence of beauty
on a morning such as this.
This is why we toil and strive, mend walls, and patch the roof.
So if we are blessed, we can spend just one such morning, once in this life,
eating food prepared with affection, a strong cup of Twining's,
and the re-energizing aura, of simply being loved.
If there is more than this to life, may I die never knowing it.
For how could heaven ever compare to this morning?
A Burns 2012
