Coming home in the car from the village shop down a narrow country road
I got stuck behind a school bus which had just pulled in before a bend (so I couldn't pass it)
It was letting off a passenger
It was a little wee girl all on her own
She got off and then started to walk down this little lane
On her back she had this big school bag
And the school bag was almost bigger than she was
I thought "All that world knowledge weighing down on her poor mind
Being told to learn and memorise it
And that her whole future depended on it
I wondered would she lose herself along the way
Them emphasising the importance of it
And the insignificance of her"...
I wondered "Would there be anything of her left after it ?".

flannel shirt and torn blue jeans
she always held her cards close
to her fragile heart
her wild heart

(a heart not for me)

and she fades into a cold wind
whitens into snowflakes
and wild infatuation

i'm faded

the torn page
from a list of lovers
broken and sad

my love is moonlight and mare's tails

the night's stars
shot full of lost tomorrows

I'm listening to the house ,
the popping of the joists ,
the groans from years of delapidation . The arguing
with local foundations .

Age has its benefits in the forms of doors as they no longer stay moored to the walls but swing in indecision like the fools who stand in perpetual obsolesence .

Where then do my thoughts propel my rudderless oblivion ?
My angst , the thumb in many dikes , leaves me as powerless before the mass of my desperation .

How dare the Ghosts of daylight leave me marooned in the shadow of shadows .

I am confused and challenged by the hidden agendas and secret subpoenas of an alien race of thought .

And were I capable of burying the haunting images , would they not
sprout from my seeds of discontent and flourish
yet greater than before ?

. . . evidently so .

I do not yearn for the frenzied fire,
that sizzles, rages and burns.
Or bolts of lighting that streak in the sky,
scorching the air with their striking demand.
Nor do I wish for the unpredictable
excitement of color filled fireworks to light my nights
whistling, booming and crackling loud and bold.

No. I wish upon the twinkling night stars
that have steadily sung for eons,
the quiet, iridescent shine of the moon
that dependably follows her infallible cycle.
I yearn for those cooling, quite whispers of
the gentle wind, who though whimsical in her moods
is always there to breathe life into my lungs.


Give me those winds.

It's hard to chase the shapes of sleep
those grey elusive foggy sheep
who graze upon the fields of night
they wrap themselves in dreams to hide
while tired eyes stay open wide