I could be a poor fisherman
or a collector of the taxes,
a dear friend dead in the grave
or a loving woman
so Courageous and brave,
a gold coin or a copper penny,
a king, a queen or a knave
but never will I go unseen.
The years grew wild roses
On a creeping vine
There has been a harvest
On the gleaners line
A highway have we walked
Our hearts they entwine.
I’m just a wayfaring stranger
Treading a long and dirty road
Looking for a city of gold
Somewhere in the shadow
Or on a hill I am told.
I am no lamb for the slaughter
No wolf in the clothing of sheep
I have no desire to be
A whitened sepulchre
Or a dark robed Pharisee
With his chainsaw
he cut into vine and
branch and trunk and
laid them low
as with the broad stroke
of an artist’s brush.
“It was fun,” he said
of the view he created.
“We just cleaned
the fingerprints
off a work of art.”
What was it you wanted,
do you remember and
was it important and did
it last once you
possessed it?
As a silver mist
that passes through
our fingers,
so are our desires.
‘Love one another
as I have loved you;’
how many ways
can these words
be spoken?
And from whence
does this love come?
We are locked in
or out of the garden
by the dictates of others;
one’s love of solitude
or one’s need to gather
together, will shape
our point of view.
Grey curtains of thick rain and
floating cloud are hanging
across the deep river valley.
Throughout the day they open
and draw, revealing lonely skyline
and tall mountains of bush and forest
and the grey, gravel road at my gate.
Some to the altar came
looking for shelter
from the falling rain;
some to the altar came
to offer themselves
with their hearts aflame.