rhymin’

I Face The West

The green isle sang a melody
as on clouds I floated free
and brought to me a memory
ancient yet not me
verdant dreams of tribal home
and he that I would be

the warrior, the troubadour
a prince of devout grace
with a beggarman’s philosophy
a drunken priest’s lost faith
and as I passed above all time
I gained all sense of place

my purpose then now plain to me
from on these heaven’s highs
all truth and beauty’s delicate
lights dance before my eyes
and without fear I face the west
as to my rest I fly.

Painting Rain

a sorrowful new dawn descends
in rainstorms painted by the night
which in their darkened shades do render
glassy shadows to the light.

no watercoloured dreams are these
its strokes are bold and without guile
and draughted with such cold unease
ill comfort in both form and style.

so paints the rain in this last spring
yet soon an artist young awakes
with pastel palette colours singing
for when summer’s first morning breaks.