Summer sky with spitfire.
My wife says it's her dad.
And loud the old engines roar
holding my attention.
Ants shall raise their antennae
wild birds make for a perch.
Our vision extends to a distant speck
hard to say exactly when
its gone.

Hold hands and carry on.

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Your troubles began long before you were born;
it's not your fault. You could boast, if you would,
of walking towards the light.

When young you think you can fly. You think
you can live forever. You thrill to think
you will escape a forest of razor-sharp thorns
and fall into the open arms of Love.

So suddenly old, you do reach the heights-
relentless mountaineering just a way of l...

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