If I were a poet I would walk in fields of green ,
hand in hand with my fair maiden. amugst
Crows I had not yet seen .
If I were a poet  by pillow sky's of blue ,
You would walk beside me hand in hand ,
by a pebbled running stream ,
and as dawn broke walk barefoot along side hills I'd never been ,.
Then the bright morning star would be on some distant planet far away ,
Unable to temp ,
and take this blessed peace away .
For as Christ in all his glory Witnissed  Satan fall like a bolt out
Of a firmament so poetic only a canvas on grey and black would do .




As if poetry were like apples only a red or green to pick ,
Ripe and juicy ,
Yet rotten and so sweet .
.
with tables set before me one with a bowl of fruit below ******
Sky ,
the other bread and wine  set before me under this benevalant Welkin vault .
One of poison ,
One of love ,
And so to grey sky's  and bitter winds I awake ,
under black ice I fall ,
But this way may not be paved with gold ,
Or ladies sweet perfume ,
But poetry and Gods wisdom in Jesus love on a cold Autumble afternoon ..