the hero out of stories
comes swooping in on a white charger
sweeping up in uncompromising arms
and muting protest with a mouth
tough as a final demand
and the bailiffs already at the door
is it love?
Do I get to say
with this kind of dream
or is it as unnegotiable
as the small print at the bottom of the loan?
I pat the horse and offer it an apple
but it never breaks step
not even when I fall
and my head hits
that providential stone.
I take my sorrows to the river
That curls and glides and ambles by
To bathe them in the golden light
That streams and pours from a placid sky.
The sullen ache that tints with grey
The garish kingcups with golden leaves
And turns to lead the dancing lights
The silver thread that the water weaves.
Bearing its burden of broken dreams
River runs heedlessly on to the sea
With never a thought for broken hearts
For the transient sorrows of you or me.
Bathed in dew the earth unfolds
Ravelling up the shades of night
And swirling the morning’s silver skirts
Sewn with longings of golden light.
It takes my hand, the new day dawning
And shows me the place where I belong
Where sorrows dissolve like river mist
Into the beauty of the blackbird’s song.