For building my thoughts
I have stumbled with bricks
too heavy for me to carry.
The words slip away
they are made of thick muck
not much concrete, more slurry.
On a rainy day
my poetry house
crumbles and falls in slow motion.
I shall not give up
till this language gives in
so I can construct with emotion.
Dark blue is staying for a little while
as grey has passed away in the last hour.
The light feels better now it ‘s almost night
and geese are flying over our isle.
In nights like this there is no misery
but only gratefulness for being here.
My love is sleeping in my arms till dawn,
what he might dream, will stay a mystery.
And in the morning other birds will sing.
They flew from far to stay till Winter comes.
The morning light is waking up my love,
the room is golden now, the shade of Spring.
Accusingly the tree branch points
to where the sun should be
but only how we now don’t speak
will make a memory.
Alarmingly you speak no more
of what our love could be
but only how there is no point
in staying here with me.
If only now I cut that tree
would then the sunlight burn
and if so, will you speak to me,
would our sweet love return?