How your face has fallen to the cruel days
Like the leaves on the ground
Like the moth in my bedroom
In circles flying round and round
The sun sets over the weary hills
And the yellow fields and dark hedgerows
And rows and rows of horizons piled up
One by one, one by one
I can take your anger,
and walk away the while
Still smiling, in measured flight
I can walk that weightless mile
Is there poetry in the parking lot?
In the grid like lines of Milton Keynes?
Behind the scenes the dead wind rustles and shakes water's sea-ward dreams
Is there poetry amid the reeking refuse and overflowing bins?
I heard them sigh in the howling of the wind
For another day that slipped its way through their fingers.
It was dark then.
The world was covered with ashes.
I lost you 15 years ago. I'm afraid I will lose you again.
If in 15 years time, I don't remember your voice, what then?
I've grown afraid of Autumn winds blowing dust off my heart.
My tears never turned to ice,
A quiet breath, like horses galloping
The dark air is heavy, the night closing in.
There are thoughts at the edges
She drew me in the shower, two eyes above a smile.
Her paintbrush was a finger, the canvas was a tile,
I hung there for a second as water welled up in my eye
She turned to go, and left alone, I cried and cried and cried.
We communicate, you and I,
across vast landscapes,