A face that comes by night to grant you love is strong enough to fool the flow of dreams. “Awake you sleeping passion, true Foxglove.” Disguised friend with magic eyes, it streams. Let me expose the trickery before more young, inattentive, beguiled sweethearts turn sour and lose the joy of what’s in store provided neither welcome taste of tarts. There is another way to lift the loss that absent satisfaction brings to bed. The scent of lover’s pillow, sweet as moss, will rouse the flow of memories instead. Resist temptation’s guile throughout your years, alive, alone, awake, and sigh no tears.
Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns, not in a pew prostrate before a god, not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant, a poor unworthy man afraid to say: Like as the eagle soars astride the wind, like as the river flows from spring to sea, like as erratic stands upright and firm, a worthy creature proud to stride the land.
No more a child beset with guilt and shame, but grown attentive to the joy of light, humble as dust and underwhelmed by night, a star that shines and whispers love to all.
We move in prayer, our talent in our verse, we celebrate in time the universe.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 