In honouring our dead we lay their ghosts.
We look again from human need and pain.
Which one has loved,which one has hurt the most?
Forgive and let no bitterness remain.
For them,the humble, no portraits were made,
Just word pictures which fade back in the mind.
Kings and lords paid artists, yet forbade
The showing of cruel lips and eyes unkind
Yet even they are trodden underfoot
Their gold protected virtue not at all.
The soul is made from feelings which don’t rot,
No holy spirit’s sold in our great Malls.
We need to speak and love in this moment .
And look on all with glad-eyed,warm intent
Walking a ridge of rock
We saw Poole Harbour blue as ripe Stilton
Blue glints like decorations
I didn’t imagine then
How near we were to the end.
And what are out ends?
Do we choose it or copy?
It’s how we see that matters not what
Out in Morecambe Bay we felt the rain
The lightning flashed and caused the cowards pain
They sent a motor boat to bring us back
From the clouds we heard a fearsome crack.
The sky is tinted mustard almost pale.
The wind is light, we fear no April gale.
The branches of the little tree look black
In holly branches birds will feel no lack