In place of strife
In a life of opportunity
And always being the last to leave
Not seeing those lost in left behind love
Tastes of freedom, seasons
Of spring, of summer, of autumn
Winters turn, burn
Dumb again, left for reasons of love
Paisley shirts, floppy felt hat
With a touch so intimate
A gait, the trait, it's late
Don't hesitate, imagine that
Yes to fancy being the anchor of love
The alarm clock misses its beat
Our feet touch and we talk of dreams
The meaning of our sleep it seems
Wrapped in paper, left by the keep
In the park where you showed me headstones
The old bones, uncovered and moved to one side
The pride of civilisation, they cried
We lied, and sang of Me and Mrs Jones
Unknown to another generation
Later or earlier, after, before, or in between
Unseen by angels and painters, redeemed
By atheists, agnostics, and the freighter
Which funnels the flow along the leat
You play The ride of the valkyries
I play Conquest of paradise
You drive down Mulholland
I go through my village to the moor
Your landscapes are mountains
And deserts, lands open of fear
My hillsides are for shepherds
For winds, and cheek red tears
I turn, full round in either direction
In this twilight the twinkles
Of the cities illuminate the depths
Of the valleys, indicate the journeys
To the centres of our earths
In a cosy pub, away from your mother
With your mates, light ale, or the new mixture
Of lager and ice cold Irish cider; you say
You won't stay long, before you get on home
To the television and the chatter
Yes, the natter of what you did with your day
Not that it matters, unless of course
You've confounded everyone and got a job
Or once again picked up the calendar
With artwork by Vermeer, or passed the scent
Of lilies in bloom, or explained how to develop
The recipe of sauce for Beef Wellington
And if you do hear us say, without thought… if only
If you had a caravan
Would that make you
A particular kind of person
If then in November
You camped on the top
Of this most desolate of moors
Would that say something
About how you fit into society
In an hour, or less
It will be total darkness
Later the whisper of silence will arrive
I wonder to knock on your door
But ask myself, are you alone?
