Eyes On A Winter Page

 

Your eyes are on my winter page,

Each word like breath and fallen flowers,

While I have rhymes for many needs,

And treasures for the passing hours.

 

And did you read Gerontius,

Where Newman spoke of raging dreams,

Where hands offend to common prayer,

And Cranmer penned the precious reams.

 

I ponder and I quicken wit,

For words like masons stones can rise,

To truth and concert or to god,

Our worlds dissolved to bitter lies.

 

My Song of Solomon for fools,

My cause corrupt and cautions jape,

For those who seek but never find,

A food for swine, a wanton rape.

 

This father of a worthless child,

A mewling thing of fret and tears,

Who cast in syllable and line,

Was born of hope and fleeting years.

 

I strut a peacocks polished pride,

The wine of life an open cask,

I push the boundary, shade the lamp,

And daily wear a different mask.

 

Your eyes are on my winter page,

What value or what wisdom there,

What light illuminating gloom,

What sweet support to banish care.

 

I wade in meanings and I drown,

I climb ambition just to fall,

As vanity destroys my soul,

I hear damnations bugle call.

 

But in the rocks I anchor firm,

For life is just to those who try,

Full wise the wisdom of my age,

Full wise the man who knows the lie.

 

I anchor deep and anchor strong,

I triumph still no banners furled,

With pen and book as castle walls,

I set my verse against the world.