High winds, you on your bicycle looking at moody Suffolk skies, years ahead of you in the wandering youth tea cup leaves of fortune. Your Songs and poems like leaves dancing to mystical tunes, life’s tragedies hidden in the wild hopefulness of our yellow barn masquerade, so much ecstasy before us, cloud riding, sunset lovers, all to the gloriously naïve heartbeat of life.
The trace of that road, that bike ride, is at the same location today,
but, totally different,
now it has been played out in time to …….
stagnate hopeless dark silence …………..
(For Charlie Chips)