Discarded book

Joseph spoke of a fight,
a tussle between two lovers
who could not live together
but could not be apart.

Hannah saw a reunion,
a sophisticated woman,
leaping from her seat
in delight at seeing her man.

For me it was just sadness,
the kind that eats at your soul
and dims the light of day
leaving no room for hope.

Christian thought no such thing,
seeing only forgetfulness,
a projection of his own trait
onto an unknown stranger.

The truth, of course, we'll never know.
Those forgotten pages lay open
but remain closed:
the story they tell is not their own.

Picking up the pieces

You tell me, as you close the door
you need some time alone.
It's not the words you say that hurt;
the coldness that you've shown
cuts through me like a winter breeze
and makes me feel so low,
as you fight with the demons
of the life you used to know.

I used to think that you would be
my life, my heart, my soul
you'd lift my life and I would long
for you and you alone.
But summer does not last all year
nor, little did I know
could your love for me overcome
the life you used to know.

Now staring at the wooden door
I wonder how to find
the words to break through your cold shell
and get inside your mind.
It doesn't seem to make a difference
what I say or do,
I'm picking up the pieces
of a life I never knew.

A piece of my mind

There's a piece of my mind
that is forever Spain,
the country where I found myself,
waiting patiently
on the road to Santiago.

There's a piece of my mind
still walking, walking
resting, walking,
as it makes its way
slowly, painfully, along its way.

There's a piece of my mind
even now,
that begs for agua, paz y perdón,
journeying every night
as we journeyed each day.

And every night
the end grows nearer
and Santiago
drifts
a little further away.

But in a quiet corner of my mind,
Spain remains.

Foundations

If I believed without a doubt,
in truth I’d not believe at all
and anything that I held true
would just be what was taught to me.
I’ve only found my path to truth
by questioning what I believe.
When doubts abound and hope runs out
my quiet faith helps me stand tall.

English tearoom

A gentle breeze plays through my hair
as I sit and contemplate the view,
boats bobbing gently on the waves
beneath blue skies, whilst clouds scud by,
nudging memories that lay just out of reach.
Faces, shapes and sounds flit by
like butterflies, too agile to catch
and too fragile to hold.

I sit and gaze, teacup in hand,
breathing the delicious scent of
crumpets oozing hot butter,
relaxing in the midday sun
and chasing butterflies
through the fields of my mind.

The View from the Bridge

It's been a long time since I saw you,
too long since I touched your hand
or felt the warmth of your skin,
so the sight of you takes my breath away,
makes me stop and stare
as if a stranger,
seeing you for the first time.

I knew, of course, that you would return,
had counted the days,
marked them off in my mind,
but still the sight of you unsettles me,
makes me wonder
whether you have changed,
whether things can ever be the same.

I've seen the view from this bridge
a thousand times,
the chestnut trees that line the field,
sunshine glinting brightly through their leaves,
but now I see it anew.
I stand, waiting for your smile,
then step forward, to be near you.

Careless Dreams

She dreamed of snow, but when it came
so did the telephone call.
The fields quilted in a delicate blanket
were just the way she'd imagined,
their soft fluffiness mocking her
as she battled through the morning traffic
to the place where her husband lay
upside down in a twisted metal cage,
no longer dreaming.