Dust on the wind, malevolent sorrow in the ice-cold gutter of a dead heart, down the dirt road tracks to Nightingale farm. Where once we knew days of belonging. I see now that immense Suffolk sunset, and the leaf mould path that led from chrickle wood down to that Stour valley wonder landscape, where shadows still tell out, we are the stuff that dreams are made on.
I have taken to wandering there lately, where the cold gone despair of it all seeps into my bones, and derelict rafters laugh at those once brave to love.
God the rainbow maker who gives all to a shining summer, and allows the lonely labourer on the Beet fields to say, “The lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”.
Exhausted ego of youth dances with the Crippled giant on naiveties shadow lands, I am nothing and everything to everything in the mystery of “I”
I am standing here tonight between light and dark, I hear a silence that cuts between animal and angel, I know nothing, but strangely, nothing knows me.