It was the ghosts that told me.
Not so much with what they said
(this was as vague and off key as usual),
but with their strange mood,
their furtive glances at the sky
and their insistence that autumn was close,
though it was still July.

It was the ghosts, their eyes, and their insistence
that led me upstream, closer to the mills
where industry began and poverty took a turn for the worse.
And that was where I made song,
because song can mend plenty of ills and causes
the root of all kinds of evil to fade and give way
to community and summer.

And you know community is never wasted
and summer is always welcome.

And I found that the next time we supped together,
sitting by the stones, just beyond the spring,
in the cool of the first August evening,
the ghosts were looking more rested, less furtive
and more inclined to sing.

And so we sang.  So loud the foxes and fairies complained.  
(But with a smile and a dance, so you know they were just playing.)

The inside me often disagrees
(sometimes violently)
with the outside me

See, they have very different perspectives
different standards
different - … ,  
well they're just different.

They've both had it difficult,
but in different, very distinct ways.

And that leads to differences in opinion and to opposition.
Opposing views, opposed decisions
that in the end they need to resolve
(however reluctantly),
to agree where they disagree.

Agree a way forward.

If you think the outside me would prevail,
you have been deceived and failed to conceive
just how much the inner man can conserve
energy until its needed to win the day

And so the outer me concedes,
(not defeat, but a passing loss),
because in the end they're in this together.
Inner or Outer.

A toss of the same coin.
One of us winning whichever side comes up,
whichever, whoever ends up on top.

Like I say, don't be fooled by the outward façade.
Take the longer view.
Look at the heart.

Sometimes it gets fierce
like it's looking to escape.
But I tell it not yet.
I get it to calm.
Tell it I need it in place

But no matter how much
I speak peace it still gets fierce.
So much so I have to wonder
when its time will come
and mine will go.

But not yet. Not now.
Now I'm fierce enough.
Enough to speak peace
in words learnt over long years.
Long enough to keep pace,
keep to my off-beat rhythm
that’s beaten it down
into a life-long submission

While knowing that life-long
isn't long enough
and the beat won't go on
ad nauseam.

But yes, I get fierce enough,
enough to keep the beast in its place.
- My time hasn't expired yet.

I know my time will get old.
But not yet.

Not how I planned it
Not as I'd hoped
But better

Not the path we'd plotted
Not the course we charted
But higher

Not the story I'd written
Not the song I'd practiced
But oh,
it's been well told and well sung
and I've spent time with my Messiah.

He's given me another path.
A different gift.

When the sun shines through my hand,
red and pink through my fingers,
the inside out.

When the sun makes shadows of my hand,
shade to my fingers,
darkness across my page.

When the sun shines, I climb line after line
from one rhyme to the next
unchecked from the deep,
to new depths, from newer heights!
To greater red and dark lights!

'No,' she said, as we waited, 'that’s not right.'
Not fading, but returning, rising through
full spectrums of radiant light until,
to the human eye it appears to fade
       (pale white to a silver grey)
but it simply steps into a vision
that is reserved for keener eyes than ours.
       (like ultraviolet)

Not fading, but transforming, travelling
at a speed forever known as its own.
Always keen to get home in a fit state
to enjoy a few hours with its feet up
by the ebb and glow of its evening fire
       (red with blues and greens)
before rising, rested, to greet the dawn
recharged with the full force of the sunrise.
       (bold yellow and blood orange)

No, not fading.  That fails to see the truth
that it’s taking paths through deeper shadows
       (purples and blues mostly)
which our deceptive eyes struggle to grasp
and in our weakness, it is lost to us.

Then she gasped, and I saw that she was right,
the light didn't fade, but it stepped ahead
waiting at the next bend of hope’s rainbow.
       (a glow of pure gold)

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition 
I'm even sometimes partial to
suggestion by omission 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes 
and silly with alliteration 
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency 
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhymic lunacy 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this