Well, my dreams remain stately seen
in a passing eye or my written melody.
And somewhere are the places that I know,
although I see them with a golden glow.
I hope that my dreams will always stay
never to dim with the passing days.
And I know one thing that still stands true;
dreams never die, they simply change.
You don’t notice the world when you’re talking.
When you remember the scene, you remember everything:
The temperature of the wind, the sounds of laughter,
The pebbles parting beneath your feet.
And parts in-between you paint into view,
Like the camera angles that would have captured you best,
The lingering shot on the moment they looked at you,
The song that should have been playing, just audible enough.
But at the time you lose yourself to the small things that you say;
The things that make you happy just being there.
Big delta heart aged one hundred and three;
Crossed a mighty river,
Showered by the tears from the high hanging trees,
And that steamboat never slowed down.
His crooked cemetery smile grounded the crows
That followed like the band;
And they sang in the sermon weary night
Till it got out of hand,
Still that steamboat went rolling on and on.
Been a little hard lately.
Still I smile when I wake in the morning
And see the sun forming a golden frame
From behind my curtains.
I know I will laugh again.
Gold sun on the lake,
The ripples lap from the painters brush
And rise to join the evening air.
The sky above is bruised from fresh rain.
Since then, the birds have begun to sing.
The simple things I long for
Like blue skies over cable cars
Only happen in the movies
Littered with forgotten stars.
Warm fires on winter days
Romances to light the summer sun
Seem so close to touch
Yet remain hidden when the day is done.
The good life in the streets
People smiling, birds in the trees
Are locked outside my door
Maybe waiting there for me.
But the simple things I long for
Come from technicolour stories;
The right lines to the saddest songs
And people chasing down memories.
What a joyous world!
Every colour’s on the palette,
The canvas is bare.
Love and happiness;
Strange ripples in the river.
A new season starts.
A lord lived there once. The floors remain;
A high, proud place. It still stands in parts,
On a hill in the midst of a field
Where the grass is cold and dull.
This lonely tower, a wreck that bore
Storm after storm, still holds within the life
Of someone lost to time. Someone who once listened
To the singing birds in the near-by forest –
The same songs that I heard not long ago.
I always loved the sound of gulls in the morning.
My father complains. They no more shatter the dawn
As the arriving cars. They are the music of the sea
And the sun shines with them. Who cares if they steal
From time to time?
The dusk sky on a harbour front –
Oh, it makes me drunk and happy.
The pubs are full and uproarious,
And the human sound in the air
Is footsteps, and the rhythm of the tide
Matches my breathing.
This is a land of ancient stone,
Unchanged roads, songs of autumn death
And songs of spring reborn.