Amidst the howl of Hector’s blow
I ponder on the life I know
Of blue, blue eyes, I think the while
I’m lost in dreams of gentle smile.
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Blowing in the wind.
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The Hangman.
The Hangman
There were screamers who were dreaming
There were watchers standing by
While a woman lay heartbroken
With a teardrop in her eye
There were children with no shoes on
They were waifs and they were strays
And young men watched the years go by
While old men counted days.
There were clowns and there were vagabonds
A hangman dressed in black
There were many going forward
But none did they come back
There was one stood in the midst of things
Who held within his hand
A trickle of the finest grains
Of gently woven sand
And as the trickle left his palm
And fell in silent flow
Each grain of sand became a dream
Into the book to go
In ornate script from flowing pen
From nib to book they flew
To wait upon the golden glow
That comes from love so true
The hangman looked around him
Red eyes ‘neath hooded frown
In long black cloak and high black hat
His glance was always down
With meticulous attention
He guessed at weight and height
Assessed them for their neck size
Then sat back down to wait
He knew all men to be guilty
And thirteen women too
It was just a question of degree
Hanging me or hanging you
The vagabond was homeless
Dressed in tattered rags
His world was carried with him
In worn out shopping bags
He slithered through the milling crowd
Looked for half a chance
His fingers sliding everywhere
In a thieving mystic dance
In and out of pockets
For silk or coin of gold
For silver pin or pocket watch
Aught that it could be sold
The only one to notice
Was the hangman with a grin
Who marked his soul with a cross of red
And wrote his name therein
The waifs and strays were orphans
Abandoned and forlorn
They would sell their soul for thirty pence
Or rags that folk have worn
Standing there with hands out cupped
They were rudely pushed aside
No-one knew the pain they’d felt
Or the rivers of tears they’d cried
The pretty ones were wanted
The rest? Well who would know
The hangman grinned, with toothless smile
Into his book they’d go
In grubby rags and skinny limbs
With hope gone from their life
Their so young eyes had seen too much
Of sadness, tears and strife
In huddled groups they waited
Not knowing from where they stand
That the only thing that awaited them
Was the hangman’s outstretched hand
The clowns they did their juggling
In this carnival of grief
And watched the fall of mankind
Like the falling autumn leaf
The hangman looked around him
Well satisfied it seems
To put an end to life itself
And to kill all hopes and dreams
And when the day it ended
And I sadly look around
The only thing I see that’s left
Is the book laid on the ground.
I recently spent some time looking at Russian icons in an art gallery and wondered how the technique may be applied to a modern portrait. Here is the result.
The sweetest dreams.
This painting is from a piece of sculpture I came across recently. I wanted to take the impasto effect I had played with on Terracotta 6 a little further and this is the result.
Ten years.
I didn’t quite make it to ten years
But the ten years nearly made it to me
I didn’t quite make those ten years
But in the last month the pain was for free
The ten years were simply the sweetest
I lived my life in a trance
You gave me the world in a rainbow
And you showed me that life was to dance
I didn’t quite make it to ten years
I lost the end in regret
But the sweetest years, they were your years
And my thanks are to God that we met.
Dylan sings Sarah
Dylan was singing Sarah
From somewhere deep in my fate
The words didn’t quite do her justice
But they showed it was never too late
It was dark and still in the Cavern
When my Mother whispered to me
And Dylan was still singing Sarah
To the seeds of whatever will be
Who knows if fate will endeavour
To weave our paths into one
And will Dylan still sing to Sarah
When the memories of the Cavern have gone
How brave is the bravest of brave hearts
Will your hand reach out to seek
Dare you see what fate is a-weaving
Or are your vision and your daring too weak
As the smoke clears out from illusion
And your beauty paints a stain on my eyes
Dylan is still singing Sarah
And Lennox is asking me Why.
It doesn’t get easier, it gets softer.
Will you drift on the breeze
As it slips through the trees
Till you rest in the arms of another
Will you re-call the time
When your hand laid in mine
When all we did need, was each other
As the years pass us by
With hardly a sigh
Will we grieve for the times that we lost
Will we sit in our Fall
And remember it all
And wonder how much that it cost.
