All those pages of handwriting
With sloping margins
What is that all about
How easily do I trawl
My deep sub-conscious
All those skies full of rain
Around the silver and the grey
Where does the wind rise
So far from the raging seas
Of our universal unconscious
What then of the smoke
From the small shed’s chimney
Who did light the fire
On the warmest day of winter
When the weather gifts consciousness
And so the clock chimes
After who knows how many years
See just what can be achieved
Through the turning of a key
In the half-light of the semi-conscious
