Down where The Land yields to The Sea
As the edge of an offered blade,
A boundless ocean flows harnessed yet free
Through trenches millennia made.
At The pool of my blood I’m cut to the bone
Fractured cliffs rise up to defend,
My heart echoes through chambers forever alone
With a pulse that no steel could end
Love is The Sword that rusts in the tide
Thrust too deep to ever withdraw,
Like the myth of a King who drew it but once
To find himself ever at war
Rural Rides (The Bird Scarer)
Under Sack Cloth between The Cracks,
In ditches by The Workman’s Tracks,
Beyond the Bawdy Ale soaked House,
The Scarer Wakes with Field Mouse
The Dust of Bones that fell in France
Was scattered here to bring advance,
To farmers fields with Heavy Plough
Our Dead are churned to feed us now.
A Bastard Boy no Mother Mourns,
The Blasted Cannon of Empires Dawn,
His Clapper Claps to scare the Birds
Each Clattered Beat Drowns out his Words.
Across these Patchwork Jaded Hills
An echo gently whispers still,
Of all the voices never heard
Drowned out by time to scare a bird.