writing

I Shall Miss.

I shall miss the dandelion
as surely as the sun
and I will miss the end of rain
when the storm is run
I shall miss the lies of days
which promise comforts new
and the guile of midnight’s ways
of dreams that don’t come true
I shall miss the aches of age
that torment me out of bed
though more than all in life’s great plan
I’ll miss wishing I was dead.

The River

I remember the water
and it’s soft rhythm
not green and clear
singing on harmonious sands
but grey and knowing
as it beat slowly
against the black harbour walls.

There was melody there
but this water was of our blood
and blood beats from a heart
tired with sorrow
and forgotten out of time.