July 18, 2011

He knows so little of love, this man,
And I guess even less about you:
For he shakes and he fumbles,
He moans and he grumbles
And can’t wait for each day to be through.
But though he says that he can’t,
You can tell that his heart
Beats a shambling rhythm for you;
And I know that he’d follow
Wherever you’d go,
If you told him you wanted him to.



January 18, 2011

It would be wrong to declare, “this is where you belong”
but it suits you, I think, and that’s enough for a song.
The way you wear the duvet, a little leg on show;
and your hair as a feather, to set-off your pillow.


January 13, 2011

Watching lilies from the riverside:
A fruitless occupation, one could say,
but a beautiful way to waste some time
on a Saturday.

Watching raindrops down the window glass,
too fast to count as they scurry away,
accelerates the time it takes to pass
another Sunday.

Foraging for life in the furrows,
as subterranean mice must at night,
is no distinguished way, god knows,
To pass through a life.

Watching lilies from the riverside:
A fruitless occupation it may be,
but lilies, and rivers, with you close by,
that’s all I’ll ever need.