These lines of cursive curling into clouds
If I dream, seems I mean to dream aloud
These clouds of grey and rain encased within
Would fall for all to be cleansed of their sin.
I walk the path with banks of grass each side
Opposed to trails and tracks of dreams implied
I look ahead as not to face my fear
Spill a little salt; I was never here.
I watch the words rise up in twists and curls
I dive down deeper still to fish for pearls
I reach high up above to grasp the moon
I sing aloud perhaps to stay in tune.
These trees are sentinels as bride and groom
Stars circle in the sky passing the moon
And here I will stand and here I will stay
And still these things, my life, won’t go my way.
© Kris Blackburn 25/03/13