A Cage To Hold My Dreams
For She Who Warms My Heart
I am the greeting on the tavern door
the quiet harbour where waves toss and curl,
I am the wood-fire crackling in the grate,
the loaf hot from the oven, the vase of fresh flowers
on the table, sanctuary for she who warms
my heart. Let these words express my joy
at her coming Let the golden harp I have tuned
for her pleasure be played with delicacy
and I shall observe her as she listens, knowing that
of all the firesides glowing for her tonight,
she chooses mine.
What she is doing for me is more than I deserve,
a step beyond conscious desire, for this is
indescribably great. She reawakens in me feelings
which I feared were gone forever,
yet here, with the willow outside my window
trailing low over the grass, and the music
of Puccini to have with our wine, tenderness ripped
so savagely from my heart when the sky coarsened
and the sun vanished returns like the opening
roundelay of Spring.
The sweet purr of her voice at breakfast,
full of sunlight and charity and mischief, re-tunes
my ears to the crooning of the wind,
to the peal of church bells, to the rustling
of green and golden leaves. Morning has acquired
new colours, things of little interest mysteriously
glow and sparkle, the years fall off me
like confetti, and I could whip bullies again and
climb trees with one hand tied behind my back.
By now, an ordinary sky would have used up
its quota of breath for one day, rippling sails,
turning windmills, moving clouds across the sky,
but still it finds the strength to play my chimney
like a ghostly flute. But soon she will go, and what
then, I wonder ? Will begin to I feel my age again ?
Shall I be charmed by the simple things which
charmed me before ? Are recent kisses with lovely
ladies to be stripped of their wonderment ?
Will songbirds gather up their music and fly away ?
Tomorrow I shall rise at the usual time, thankful
that I can compose more words and cross more
rivers. Nothing has happened which I need to fear.
Trees aren't purple, my limbs still move, scrambled
eggs taste good and nobody has put bleach
in the tap-water. All I know is that she is part of
my world now and even my shoelaces are smiling.
the quiet harbour where waves toss and curl,
I am the wood-fire crackling in the grate,
the loaf hot from the oven, the vase of fresh flowers
on the table, sanctuary for she who warms
my heart. Let these words express my joy
at her coming Let the golden harp I have tuned
for her pleasure be played with delicacy
and I shall observe her as she listens, knowing that
of all the firesides glowing for her tonight,
she chooses mine.
What she is doing for me is more than I deserve,
a step beyond conscious desire, for this is
indescribably great. She reawakens in me feelings
which I feared were gone forever,
yet here, with the willow outside my window
trailing low over the grass, and the music
of Puccini to have with our wine, tenderness ripped
so savagely from my heart when the sky coarsened
and the sun vanished returns like the opening
roundelay of Spring.
The sweet purr of her voice at breakfast,
full of sunlight and charity and mischief, re-tunes
my ears to the crooning of the wind,
to the peal of church bells, to the rustling
of green and golden leaves. Morning has acquired
new colours, things of little interest mysteriously
glow and sparkle, the years fall off me
like confetti, and I could whip bullies again and
climb trees with one hand tied behind my back.
By now, an ordinary sky would have used up
its quota of breath for one day, rippling sails,
turning windmills, moving clouds across the sky,
but still it finds the strength to play my chimney
like a ghostly flute. But soon she will go, and what
then, I wonder ? Will begin to I feel my age again ?
Shall I be charmed by the simple things which
charmed me before ? Are recent kisses with lovely
ladies to be stripped of their wonderment ?
Will songbirds gather up their music and fly away ?
Tomorrow I shall rise at the usual time, thankful
that I can compose more words and cross more
rivers. Nothing has happened which I need to fear.
Trees aren't purple, my limbs still move, scrambled
eggs taste good and nobody has put bleach
in the tap-water. All I know is that she is part of
my world now and even my shoelaces are smiling.
