The yellow rose,
like sunshine,
stands outside the door
of the founded, waiting church,
having more to give
than the sermon heard within
To see God, see the rose
From bud to bloom
it follows the sun.
It shines.
You saw it as a child,
this light,
and, though it decompose,
it is a prayer,
a perfume on the air,
a symbol of Gods love
in which we share.
By the Avon, there was one,
always known as Stratford son,
who summed the world with liquid tongue.
Wisdom spilled and warmth of wit
keep his words forever young.
The paths he walked today are thronged
by wandering tourists, curious still,
about the story of our Will.
Above his grave,
pointing upward to the sky,
the shadows on the ancient spire
are swept by sunlight after clouds.
I said a prayer to please his soul
and left a sprig of rosemary.
By the river, under trees
through the graves, row on row,
I smiled to see an ‘upstart crow’
sauntering with dignity.
memories, sunlight, shadows
there are no delusions in here
seeking illumination
i have no illusions
so why am i lost again?
i am not lacking in bravery
i am even strong
this is not a prayer
help me to understand
the trees are obscuring my view
take me up to the hills
show me the path i should follow
send a message, a comet, a flash
clear away all the clouds
so i can see the moon
and the brightness of Venus beside
show me my guiding star
The Dreaming Path 