No goods nor gold can cross the Styx
The boat is small, by water crushed
The boatman’s ready with his hand
He has no use for such dry land

The woman wrapped in winter clothes
Hindered by the mist that rose
She weeps, she leaves her home and man
The dark mind  showed her where to come

Her  husband  stood beside her bones
In his loss, he softly groaned
He wept and wept and did not eat
His world  entranced by ice and sleet

Nothing’s quite as sad a sight
As old men crying  in the dark

The clouds hang out together like bored girls
Until they form a shield with  greasy curls
The radio mumbles on about  the old
As if we are  unable to be bold

Do we not have courage as we age
When we have laid our dear ones in their grave?
We edge our way downstairs to make the tea
Sit in bed,imagine we’re at sea

Children play their games and so may we
The bed a boat,the sky as wide as eyes
Where is the navigator, do we drift?
Eclipsed our passage  through  the soft  soft mist

If life’s a Play then we may take our part
To hypnotise  the audience and their hearts

The sun sinks but it burns like a great fire;
All the sky’s aflame with fierce intent;
Who thinks of death as weakness, is a liar
Before the end our glory must be spent.

The graphics of the branches look Chinese
As blackened brush is drawn across red silk
Infinite yet countable my days
Running like a river without silt

Thus I am not transcendent in myself
But joined to all that lives I feel I am.
In conjunction we will find our health
Ambivalence contains both lion and lamb.

The fire of orange leaves me with a glow
As into night I with all creatures go

Every time I see yor face I smile
It’s just a dream,I am not reconciled
When I waken up  the tears run by
Remembering or forgetting  where you are

Now you have come back to pick up me
We have  an  newer house down by the sea
Shall we take our books and music there?
I gave away your clothes but you’re not bare

I’ve found it freezing cold  outside your gaze
Without  those conversations every day
Can’t  you stay here for a few more years?
In the dream I  never seem to cry

We seem to be  the actors in this Play
You are calm and dignified, oh stay

On stinging nettles butterflies lay eggs
Not on blankets or upholstered beds
The over careful gardener lays waste
To Nature’s order  and to Nature’s grace

Holly leaves are sharper than a fist
But in those fierce conditions birds  make nests
The sharp edged leaves the stinging pains have use
To make some creature safe from our abuse

We grumble at the rain and wild west wind
As if we’re being punished for  some sin
Better be a wild flower or a weed
Trodden underfoot  by human needs

The little weeds have their resilience
They do not ruminate, they are not tense
To be a humble plant is perhaps the best
They at least will have eternal rest

The  beautiful, the plain have got their place
All   life in the end will be effaced