Aching for the season of loves memory

There is an aching in the deep centre of being,
That calls out to a homeland at some dark distant place.
In child like hope we search
beyond the blue horizon,
for a Netherland Peter Pan landscape.
In our mind this hope lingers
where once a child was abandoned,
sand castles are washed away
by the ancient tides,
where the souls of old salty sea dogs cry out;
“We once dreamed too, we once were children”.
What vain creature sleeps
in the universe of this hoping?
Where does that hope come from,
I am left with silence to contemplate.

A high wind moves clouds across the sky,
why?
Why amid all this sorrow does my heart cry,
‘Give me tomorrow’
Why, Why, Why?
Let the aging child Philosophers speak,
let the Theologian moan,
none can treat this aching for home?
So through forests
and on roads
and the railway lines we go,
where ‘yes,’ is always ‘no.’
To ecstasy or a fatal blow?
Aching for the season of Loves memory.