Troubadour
I still walk beside you:
a tall, stooped, a quintessentially English presence.
I listen to how those flat Fenland vowels swirl into melodies
Melded with the staccato RP of Cambridge.
a tall, stooped, a quintessentially English presence.
I listen to how those flat Fenland vowels swirl into melodies
Melded with the staccato RP of Cambridge.
So many minor key explorations of sadness;
Pull at my scabs of loneliness and regret.
Your songs made plangent
by the melancholic timbre of your voice.
Pull at my scabs of loneliness and regret.
Your songs made plangent
by the melancholic timbre of your voice.
Your abiding mood irresolution, your secret, regret.
You never lost your fragility of heart
and my emptiness of soul was filled,
at least passingly,
by the gentle, observational lyrics
that lifted your songs into poems.
Poems that very soon broke my heart.
And that’s my mea culpa.
I cannot listen to.your achingly beautiful music
without admittng to myself, again,
your poems’ terrifying, and abiding truth.
and my emptiness of soul was filled,
at least passingly,
by the gentle, observational lyrics
that lifted your songs into poems.
Poems that very soon broke my heart.
And that’s my mea culpa.
I cannot listen to.your achingly beautiful music
without admittng to myself, again,
your poems’ terrifying, and abiding truth.
