away from home
i think of old timbers
weathered by time
firelight reflects
on warm weathered wood
rattling windows
shelter lovers in tangled embrace
the old shutters tap
and swing back in the wind
in the blast of a storm outside
the weathercock spins
and turns twice about unhinged
this contrast of images
inside and out
where light does battle with dark
seems to sum up the world
where we cannot hide
and time is unfurled
but our hearts are well understood
out on the ledge
the wind stampedes,
bending the trees to the east,
forming newborn dunes on the beach,
as the moon pulls the roaring tide
thundering in on the rocks
and the dark clouds roll above
I don’t want to be inside
I want to ride
I want to spin
I want to throw my arms out wide
and scream
witches may fly here tonight
but if i must go in,
let it be to the ancient house
where the hawthorns bend and bow
let it be through the trembling door
where i left the key before,
where the hearth is built of granite
and the chimneys whistle and moan
and the fire almost gutters out
may the mountains loom as dark sentries,
to shelter the crumbling walls
as the land sinks down in terror,
beneath the quaking floors
may it stand,
as it has for three hundred years,
battling the wind
nothing will die here tonight
dust-raiser
deep-breather
timber-breaker
wild wave-whipper
widow-maker
shelter-spinner
shiver-shard
after raging, dying, passes
leaving debris in its path
gentle-giant
sound-weaver
surf-shifter
leaf-shaker
feather-ruffler
sigh-bringer
whispers at the window glass
whistles through the tiles and rafters
bringing cooling breeze at last
this daily journey, marked by constant icy rain,
filling streams and hiding tears,
brings me to this silent bed again
outside the windows, blossoms slowly fall in gentle wind
but these are not the flowers she see
as she leaves here, by degrees
the day is dim and poorly lit,
clouds are gathering in the west,
the leaves are shivering on the trees,
my shoes are worn, my pockets thin,
there’s no money left again,
the forecast warns of storms and rain
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
the windows creak and draughts blow in
how bad can this old house become
there’s not much here to laugh about
this sort of joke is lost on me
the tap is dripping in the bath
the fire wont light, my cat is sad,
she’s curled up in a huddled ball
there’s nothing left to eat at all
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
counting blessings I find some,
there’s still a roof above my head,
i still live, i still breathe,
my head is full of memories,
i can think, i can dream,
and winter always turns to spring
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
when the power went out we were ready
the oil lamps were always filled
the white candles stood in their holders
all was warmth and comfort
we gathered more brushwood and bracken
kindled the fire, make it crackle,
piling on logs and driftwood
we had dried in the yard in the summer
the kettle was boiling,
bread steadily rising,
as we sat near the wood stove,
silently gazing, drifting in dreams,
telling stories and fantasies
hot baths in steam and candlelight
snuggling under thick blankets
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
making a flute of the drainpipes
life went on unchanging, undaunted
when the power came back
we flicked a switch and turned on the radio
the world stepped back into the house
bringing nothing of value
tonight in another time and place
i live in another era, with no power
the house instantly grows colder
i wander about with a battery torch
in rooms full of shadows
i missed you more
than the woodsmoke and firelight
and any old luxuries of survival
but none of it matters now
the day they met
the wind turned
in slow pirouette
the curtains at the window,
caught and pulled by the breeze,
flew away to the open sea
this beautiful instrument of carefully chosen wood
its resonant round back sits warmly under my rib
its aged neck nestled lightly in the palm of my hand
it travelled with me to Ireland, Morocco, Poland, India, Spain
giving pleasure to strangers in wayside and stations
helping me find friendships in far away lands
i walked with it slung on my back in a desert valley
pausing as a strange music haunted my ear
looking about for the source of mysterious sound
the strings vibrated in response to a greater musician
the lone song of my mandolin played by the wind
it had no need of my hands. my hands long for it now
safely home, hung again on my wall, a thing of beauty,
resting, its grace and my love of it inspired hatred
one who wished to hurt me, hurt it in anger, vicious spite
while i was locked out, unable to reach you,
gone, a place under my rib left empty
no light glints on silvered strings
the wind will no longer touch them, nor i
one hundred and fifty years, gone in one moment
full of tunes played and tunes not written
all that remains, a strap embroidered
with roses and ivy entwined
woods on the hilltop groan and sway
gale blows in wild from the raging sea
pools of leaves whirl at my feet
branches crash down, world lifting up
drunken sailor riding a roundabout
stumbling, i cling to a creaking oak
this wind whips the world inside out
at the edge of the wood, mad scarecrow i stand
close to the cliff edge, mouth open wide
i swallow the ocean, breathe with the sea
facing the wind, words swept away
shouting, screaming, into the gale
Take me! Lift me! Let me fly!
lungs expanded, triumphant I rise
above the woods, tumbling in flight
blown with no sail, nowhere to fall,
dark clouds, hidden moon, stars spin in the sky
i grin, like a loon,
ecstatic fool
The Dreaming Path 