I drove home from Sunday night folk club with a storm over my house in the distance.  The beginning of this came to me.

 

 

Road Home

 

Leaves and walls and windows spin,

a jigsaw broken by a falling sun.

Heat,

the road home,

a breaking storm.

I wonder what we began.

 

There is no calm centre,

power and colour after.

 

Yesterday isn’t the journey,

no lies built or truths undone.

Rest

was a right.

Fantasies told

of tomorrow's plan.

 

There is no map,

you are not measured.

 

Lamps fail and thunder's quick,

duty’s a dead engine.

You

are a dream.

I never woke

and never wanted.

 

This is no ending,

our long day’s after.

 

Your warm hands drive the day

and frame day-glo memory.

Talking

with you,

silently

mountains fall.

 

I have no use for cool.