The labouring world hastens by, fretting 
"forward... forward..." bleary-eyed 
as commuters at the lap-top early
aboard hurtling trains through fallow fields 
where we'd lay singing; fa-la-la rising.

We've rode that train and laid on that moor.
Altogether we've yelled, "Forward, forward!"
And each silently cried "Return, return."
So full are the days required to learn
strains as plain as a birds tra-la-la.

Then what more needs to be fulfilled, and where 
to find our freedom lying stilled in the dust?
I've burnt a message in a hidden tree
look closely my unforgiven, beaten dog. 
I know you'll laugh and sing loud for me LA!

◄ From The Horse's Mouth

Song For The Chorus ►


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John Botterill

Mon 17th Jan 2022 14:47

I detect a yearning for more innocent times.
Forward or return? An interesting dichotomy, Adam.

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