J. M. Robertson

For men who work the lonesome sea,
Across the mounts their homelands be.
And through the wood and o’er the pond
A widow mourns good fisherman John.
...

Where the blue sky meets the wave
Where the grey clouds caress the grave
Where the dawn wakes the wren
I’ll be there to meet you then.
...

Glass is so weak and fragile;
It breaks from slight pressures.

But its beauty cannot be shattered;
...

The forge once burned with a cheerful fire.
Hammers that beat to the sound of the lyre.
Then war came to the vale, the times were dire.
And under the hammers, a new type of fire.
...

When we’re together, we’re constantly fencing.
Watching each other; dangerous dancing.
Hammering back and forth like masons;
But instead of building, we’re breaking.
...

Your bright blue eyes sparkle and shine;
They pause for a while, and look into mine.
...