There’s a long long trail a-winding
to the sound of marching feet
worn smooth by shadowed footsteps
their time on earth complete
although a poignant sad reminding
no one’s listening so it seems
there’s a long long trail a-winding
to the land of broken dreams
where that nightingale keeps singing
because that’s what she is for
to welcome home the fallen
from each successive war

Home for the holidays
smooth brown hills
set in a falling landscape
farms and fields of winter wheat
out west beyond the windmill
arms spread wide, dancing hands
that bow to grace a fertile gentle land
what new and subtle changes lie
beneath the wide wind blistered sky
that same familiar patchwork view
perhaps the change is me not you

Come rain
fall smooth across my face
embrace my cheek
stroke soft
as if a lovers hand
do not sting
I am no flower
and you no honey bee
sweet gentle rain
come fall on me

Today I went to the beach
to hear the rolling ocean
and the irksome cries of gulls
as they flew in circular motion
not sure why I went
it was just a peculiar notion

If my sky should fall
as one day I know it will
let mosses stitch my winding sheet
wrap me in a willow shroud
shot through with camomile
bury me in starlight,
six hands deep beneath the trees
for I always was romantic
then let me rest and take my ease

'Green blue of the sky
heated white-hot'
Vincent saw, what we could not
captured through an artists eye
he put aside his pain
to give us fields of lavender
and glorious scented rain

To love is to derail your path
put aside your own desires
throw yourself upon the pyre
to feed the fires that burn in someone else's heart
an act of madness from the very start
not a sacrifice, for that implies regret
yet we impale ourselves, to feel love's sting
on the reddest rose with the sharpest thorn
the sweetest pain which must be borne
a beautiful sabotage