MYSTERY – Anyone know the answer?

Why do seagulls stand in long lines all facing the same way?

Yesterday there were two huge long lines of seagulls, each line about an eighth of a mile long (the length of the field). The mystery was, why were they all facing the same way? They were standing shoulder to shoulder, and one line was behind the other. If one seagull had decided to turn round and face the other way would they all have followed suit so that they were all facing the same way again?

Anyone know why they allbface the same way?


Last night I sang my own song
Unique with steely tones
A song that lived in me for long
Years amongst driest bones

I sang it loud there was no wrong
The notes were perfect ‘midst your groans
Never to you did I belong
Last night I sang

I thought I heard a clanging gong
The drama played through heaven’s moans
But empty was the play among
Rusted steel and empty thrones
Love is all that can be strong
Last night I sang


September heralds the leaving of the birds,
Migrating to much warmer climes,
Embarking on a dangerous journey,
I watch them flying overhead,
Apprehension fills my heart,
But I must say “Goodbye.”

So final is the word “Goodbye,”
All summer long I have watched these birds,
Taken them deep into my heart,
Knowing they came from different climes,
They sit on telegraph wires overhead,
Gathering for their journey.

I cannot tell what kind of journey
Awaits them as I say “Goodbye,”
The dark clouds roll by overhead,
As if to threaten these vulnerable birds,
Before they reach much better climes,
I carry them within my heart.

I hear within, my beating heart,
Fearing for them on this journey,
But soon they’ll be in safer climes,
Their wingbeats thunder overhead,
This may be their last “Goodbye,”
The last act in the Play of the Birds

But I hope for next year the return of the birds,
A thought which cheers my heart,
It may not be their last “Goodbye”
They may survive their journey,
I may once again hear them overhead,
Coming home to nest from those warmer climes.
I too have my own much warmer climes,
Where I take refuge, like the birds,
When a storm passes me overhead,
I can have confidence in my heart,
Although I face perils on my journey,
To final destruction I can say “Goodbye.”

I say “Goodbye” while watching birds flying,
Preserved by warmer climes, they sing from their heart,
All face a perilous journey, a mantle protects us overhead.


We arrived in the Spring, and the path had been levelled. It had been two years since we had been in that beloved place. Then, the path was rough, just like the journey I had been on. I had always wanted to climb Everest, and during these last two years I had been told that this was my Everest. It felt like much more than climbing Everest. It felt like climbing multiple Everests. I forgot about this beloved place during that time. It was erased from my memory as my world became taken up with hospitals and chemotherapy. And dying – for I received the Last Rites. I lived! And now I had to come to my beloved place, to re-unite with Her who was inside. It was with great joy that we discovered that the path into the ancient stone building had been levelled. The journey in would be easy. I had climbed my Everests, and now I was here.

The journey was long
I forgot my Beloved
Waiting long for me


This part and rhe first part that I posted yesterday are parts of something that I am working on. I wrote the first part some time ago, but never took it any further. Until now, that is. This is just another little snippet of the story:

It is strange what the mind chooses to remember and what it forgets. It is so long ago now, that all this happened, and it changed me for ever. I never was a particularly religious person and certainly, since all this happened, I would not be one now. I saw his photograph the other day in a newspaper. He was holding a baby and was smiling. He had a shock of black hair, that looked rather like a wig or something. Just like him I suppose. Couldn’t bear to not be looking good. He’s in his eighties now though.

“You’ll never leave me,” he had said to me. Well he was wrong. I did. In the end I was too strong for him. But I’d gone on a hell of a ride first. I guess death makes us all vulnerable, and it certainly had me. I have asked myself many times, was I out of my mind?

I wasn’t his only victim though. No, his curate, Alison was another. She’d come over from America and set up a bookshop. His kids were only young then but she’d got them into reading and given them an abiding interest in literature. She had a friend living with her, but the friend died. He looked after her after that. She never really got over it but in time she went into the Church. She couldn’t function without him though. When they wanted to move her she refused to go.

Part of me doesn’t like thinking back to those tines, but I still ask the question “What happened?”

FANDANGO’S FLASHBACK FRIDAY The Loneliest Place on Earth

Poised between life and death
The loneliest place on earth
With only yourself and the Universe
Facing the chasm
You feel a pull towards the chasm
Almost magnetic
In a minute all could be gone
You have been here before
But never has it been so real as now
Never so tempting
And in these moments
You think about life
And what it is worth
Still, you are breathing
The breath of life
Yet you are not living
Your body has gone
Sight, limbs, feeling
And the darkness surrounds you
“No Entry” signs all around you
But here is a chasm
Where you can go
To forget all your pain
Where you can be in sweet oblivion
Oh yes, you can enter the chasm
No one can stop you
Why is it so much easier
To enter death
Than to enter life?
You stand poised between life and death
The loneliest place on earth


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

It will soon be twenty years since I met him. The thing I remember most is the teaspoon laden to overflowing with honey that he raised into the air and then with a flourish placed in his tea, stirring it round and round until he was certain it had all been stirred in. There was something in the exaggerated way that he did that that arrested me. Who and what was this man? He was not what I had expected him to be. I had expected a kindly old vicar, but this one was different. I knew it from the start.

I have no recollection of the conversation that we had that day, he sitting at his computer desk, me sitting on the little pink settee that seemed rather incongruous in a study that was essentially male. That settee was a place where I was to sit many times, deep in conversation with him. I found him fascinating from the beginning. He was so different from the norm. He lived in a world that I could never possibly inhabit. A world of the higher classes. Of money and good living. I was from a humble if tumultuous background. Though my grandparents were rich, my parents had never had money, and I was a lover of simplicity. This man lived with the best of everything and very obviously did not love simplicity. Even his socks had designer labels on them, and his sweaters were pure cashmere.

I was young then – well, youngish. If not so much in body, certainly at heart. Not that that has changed much really – the young at heart bit. But the body – well that is a different story altogether. But my mind is taken back to those days when I was much more attractive. To when I loved colour, and my body was blithe and energetic. It was nothing to me in those days to swim thirty six lengths of the local swimming pool each day.

“Pretty blue,” he said to me one day as I sat before him on the little pink settee. He liked me – and I knew it. I had rather liked the blue myself. It kind of glowed. I felt good in it.

I had no idea at that time what was just around the corner.

Things all began very gradually, and then built up. Well, I say gradually, but even within the first week or two of meeting me, he was plying me with whisky and water. I say plying, but I am not sure about that. All I know is that he had on his desk two bottles, when I entered his study that evening. One contained whisky, the other, water.


If you read my Diary Entry of yesterday you will know that I was going to try out my new OrCAM eye.

It took me a long time to make the decision to buy it as it was hugely expensive. However, it was recommended to me and after a lot of thought I decided to go with it. The one thing I have longed to do since I went blind is read books of my own choosing. Not just the ones that are available in Kindle form, that can be read to me by Voice Over on my iPad, but those that are only available in paperback too. Many of the books I want to read are only available in paperback.

So, we set ourselves up yesterday to try and work out how to use it. It is a little box type thing that fits onto some glasses that they provide for you. It is run by battery. All that you have to do is hold the book in front of your eyes about 12 inches away, and hey presto, upon the clicking of a button, it starts to read the book to you. Amazing!

We managed to get it reading books, but there are a few complicated bits to learn, like moving to one particular paragraph or something like that.

My joy at actually being able to read a book again is indescribable. It will also read a. Computer screen for me as well, so. I will be able to read Articles again.

Once we get it sorted out properly it will tell me w hat various food products are, like tins of beans or soup ot packets of biscuits and exactly what biscuits they are. We still have. To learn how to do that yet.

It is like all things though. I have to get used to using it.

We have it for a 30 day trial period, s o we will see how it goes. It was a big decision to make, with it being so expensive, but I think it will be worth it.


Rob looked at the TENT. A glowing orange one. She never had liked those dull colours that everyone seemed to favour these days. Tears poured down his face as he remembered. It was him who had persuaded her to try camping.

“Just imagine sleeping with only a bit of canvas between you and the stars,” he had said.

She wasn’t convinced at first, but eventually the idea grew on her. After that there was no holding her. Her first experience of camping got her hooked.

She was TERMINAL now. There would be no more camping. Soon he would be ESCORTED to her bedside and she would smile weakly at him.

He put the tent down. No way could he throw it away.

RDP THURSDAY Another day

Sarah longed for it to be ANOTHER DAY. But if it were possible to have another day, which day would she choose? It would have to be a day before cancer struck. Before that dreadful itch began. Before all this.

She often looked back to what it was like before “all this”, knowing that it could never be like that again. She meditated, often, on how life can change in one quick instant. There is a before and an after. She knew that in some ways it was not good to look back, but it was impossible now to look forwards. There was no future for her – well, not a future worth talking of anyway. Life was passing her by. When she was a child, the age she was now had seemed old. You were an old lady if you got to this age. But she was not old. Not in her brain anyway. In her brain she was still tripping the light fantastic. It was frightening though. The years had gone so fast.

Sarah shifted herself in her bed. That was where she spent most of her days now. The pain in her body overcame her sometimes, but if she could shift about a bit she cold sometimes stop the pain getting any worse. She tried to make some things out in her bedroom, but she couldn’t because she was blind. That was what the chemo had done to her. Cured the cancer but wrecked her body. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe very well either – that was due to the chemo drugs too. And the fatigue. Oh, the fatigue! No one, only her, knew how bad that really was. Sometimes even eating exhausted her.

Another day. Another day of this. Did she really want another day? If the truth be known, no, she ddn’t.


Well, today is the day! For what, you might ask. Today is the day for trying out my new eyes. We bought them last week and they were meant to arrive on Friday, but wgen they hadn’t arrived by late afternoon, we rang the place we had bought them from, abd upon ribging the delivery firm, discovered that they had had a trip to Edinburgh! How on earth……..! Oh well, never mind!

They have now arriced here, and today I am (nervously) going to try them out.

They are called OrCAM, and it is a thingy that goes onto the side of your glasses, is run by a battery abd can read books for you, speaking the words to you, tell you what bank notes you have in your habd (not many now, after buying that!) read the var codes on goids abd tell you what they are, eg. tin of mushroom soup or whatever, tell you what colour something is, tell you the name of the person stabding in front of you (face recognition) tell you wgat is wgere eg. A door on your right, etc. etc.

Ahen! Well, I am no good at teccy things and it apparently takes a bit of learning soI am bervous. Have I wasted my money on it? I don’t know yet.

Watch this space! I think it is going to be one of those days!


It was his ROUTINE every day. He had to HOLD onto it whatever the cost, a man of the cloth who really wished he wasn’t. There were things he wanted to be doing and the routine saved him from disaster. Until Dawn came along that was. She had a different OUTLOOK on life. Refreshing, he called her. Suddenly he became not himself. Or maybe it was himself. Who knew? What hides behind that very unique cloth and a bit of plastic?

#FOWC Duplicitous

The most duplicitous person I ever knew was my mother. You never knew where you were with her, and you could never be right. You would follow one thing that she said, only then to hear her say she wanted the exact opposite. Like one Christmas. Well actually it was rwo days after Christmas. It was also her birthday. My Aunt abd pUncle were having a Christmas party at their home, which we were all invited to. My motger declined the invitation but told my fatherand I to go. I was eleven years old.

My father and I returned home having enjoyed the party only to ve net by my angry mother saying,

“It’s my birthday today and you went off to a Christmas party leaving me on my own.”

As I said, you never knew where you were with my mother. She’s dead now, but I swear I sometimes hear her voice telling us we’ve done it all wrong and it was not what she wanted.


At a time when most people were struggling to see any good in what was happening, Lydia remained strong and focused. She had learned, through going blind, to see things in a new light. She always saw things differently to other people. At first it felt like a lonely place to be, but eventually she realised that her life was much richer for seeing things differently. The problem was, passing this knowledge on to other people. No one really wanted to know. She was just judged to be slightly mad. But when “the thing” happened, whilst everyone else was floundering and falling down, Lydia rode right through it all. Soon, people were coming to her and asking her how she had remained so untouched by “the thing.” She replied with the words said by a 14th. Century Mystic: “If a man wants to be sure of the way ahead he must close his eyes and walk in the dark.”


We had to make a decision quickly. The temperature was still falling, and now the gas bottle had frozen. We were in an isolated part of the Lake District in a tiny tent, but fortunately had Peanuts with us. He ASSISTED us to pack up all our gear and start the long but FAMILIAR JOURNEY home.

It was a tortuous journey made worse by the fact that we had set off for home at midnight. It had all happened quite quickly and we had not been prepared for this event. Normally temperatures did not fall so low at this time of year. Gary was exhausted, and as we eve tually drove along the motorway nearer to home he was almost falling asleep. We had to keep singing and digging him in the ribs to keep him awake. It was a nightmare journey but eventually reached home. It was five o’ clock in the morning. As we arrived home we heard on the News that Borrowdale, where we had been camping, was cut off by snow.


Perhaps soon these days will pass
Days of grey fading into dark
Then the waiting will be done
Fate will be accomplished

Days of grey fading into dark
A different way I then will live
Fate will be accomplished
I wait in limbo for this time

A different way I then will live
A foreigner in this land
I wait in limbo for this time
Whiling away my days

A foreigner in this land
No signposts there I’ll find
Whiling away my days
Waiting for time to pass

No signposts there will I find
Just memories that fade
Waiting for time to pass
Colours now all gone

Just memories that fade
Are my companions now
Colours now all gone
Perhaps soon these days will pass


Every day was the same and he would sit at the breakfast table staring into space whilst occasionally gnawing at a piece of toast.

“What are you doing darling?” his wife would ask though she expected no meaningful answer.

“Sleeping” he replied and she, knowing it was a lie made nothing of it. There seemed little point these days as they had drifted so far apart as to hardly engage in conversation any more preferring the METHOD of writing notes to each other like:

“Gone to dentist

or “Gone to Mother’s Union

meeting finally over the ten o’ clock News.

Until one day she found a note from him saying

“Gone out with my lover and won’t be taking Evensong tonight

They never found the knife that she stabbed him with .


This evening hubby brought me some spaghetti bolognese for evening meal, and I had been dictating something onto my iPad, and had forgotten to turn the microphone off! It picked up our conversation but as hsual it got loads of it wrong! This is how it came out! Lol.

Colonel fork no lemonade I’m sorry Cheese on top of the meat salsa and this pastor from end of the meat not all the major mostly that no okay I don’t know some random aside with some random content you come home where is it please which is spooning at the boxing push it in I liked it I want some pasta right turn the plate round now pastor is side going that way well that’s it I don’t wish to just get meat sauce in my mouth watching images of him I don’t know why you did that I will send him sorry I’ll make sure well don’t forget I’m didn’t you ever consider that sorry what you think about just a minute mom one election to your head yet that’s always the first thing you should think about that one aren’t you aware I’m you don’t seem to be pop yeah why aren’t you aware I don’t know my brain is sick I’ve been banned for a long time now Bob never before together everybody else does why do you do differentI held the plain plastic bottle in my hands. It contained my mother’s ashes. It felt strange and unreal to be holding my


Most people’s times of grief last for a season. Mine has lasted for a lifetime. As I looked at the single tear on the cheek of my mother after she had died, all the pain and grief of a lifetime – mine and hers – seemed to coagulate. It was only when I experienced that grief for the first time in all its fullness that I began to learn more who and what I was.

“I wish I could cry,” she had said to me a few weeks before her death. I wished that she could too.

“If you looked back too much you would go mad,” she had said, on another occasion, and I knew what she meant.

I showed the photograph of my mother’s face taken minutes after her death, to my closest friend. I am blind, but sometimes I can just see photographs on an iPad. I had not been there at the moment of her death, having had to leave earlier, due to a family disruption. My husband had taken me home, but just as we drove up to our driveway, I was seized by a deep desire to return to my mother’s house. We drew up outside the house, and at that moment my husband’s mobile rang. It was my brother.

“Mum died one minute ago,” he said.

Numbed, I went into the house, and into the living room where laid her dead body in a hospital bed into which she had got just one week ago. As I was not able to see her, my brother took the photograph. It was then that the tear became apparent.

I looked at the tear and felt a grief too deep for words. I fell silent. Whilst in life she could not cry, in death she found release.

My closest friend, upon seeing the photograph, declared,

“Your mother has the most beautiful blue eyes.” She had seen the beauty of my mother and not the cavernous mouth hanging open. In that moment, I, too, cried.

I need some love and support. Let’s give Devika some love and support


I am writing after a long time . As I was having a rough time with my life, life patterns etc and in the process I stopped writing almost everywhere. Even the acceptance letters from great magazines did boost up my mood but it did not stay for a long duration and hence I was always feeling almost numb and lost.

Meanwhile, I am writing this to ask a favour- as you all know I have a published book Crimson Skins” published last year, I need to keep it working too! I need your support. Please share, get a copy or just share this post if you can’t get a copy of my poetry bok. I have worked really hard for that one and it took almost 3 years to make through the entire publication process. If you love my surrealistic style, work, please consider getting a copy.


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Reena’s xploration Challenge#199

“You came back.”

“But we are meeting for the first time.”

Georgie looked closer at him. Yes, there it was, the tiny scar above his top lip. Almost imperceivable. But she knew it well. He was older – yes, but she was older too. No longer beautiful, at least not in the way that most people saw beauty these days. No, her beauty was not superficial, but something that came from deep inside her. That was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Her eyes shone with something that seemed to be beyond this world. He wanted it for himself, but he could not quite reach it. Then Ann came along.

Ann was beautiful in an “in your face” kind of way. It was easy to reach. No work was required. He had her for a time, but then she grew tired of him, and left him for another. And now here he was, with Georgie. Only he didn’t know it.

His luck had run out and he was looking for work. Anything that would keep him in food and rent. He had seen the advert in a local shop.

“Gardener required.”

So here he was. Offering to do the job. He looked into ber eyes, and thought he recognised something, but was not sure what. Something did seem a bit familiar. Then he remembered.

“Georgie,” he exclaimed. It IS you isn’t it!

She looked at him with that unmistakable look in her eyes, unaffected by all that had happened to her. She was in a wheelchair now.

“What happened to you Georgie?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I was in a fire,” she replied. Scarred my face, and did damage to my legs. Now I’m in this thing.”

Sean moved closer to her.

“Oh Georgie,” he cried. His arms went around her abd soon she was sobbing. Then they were kissing. Her one and only love had come back to her.


The days are growing shorter, darkness falls,
Wrapping its tendrils around my body,
As they tighten their grip a lone bird calls,
Piercing my heart with its stark melody,
Dead leaves crackle their life now is over,
The bird sings again its funeral song,
Like that of a dying, anguished lover,
Knowing the joy that was is now gone,
As the bird reaches its beak to the sky,
Stars start to twinkle and dance in the night,
A nightingale sings, its song rises high,
Out of the darkness has come a great light,
The spell is broken, i know I will live,


The poet sits in lonely isolation
Dancing with words plucked from his soul
Beauty appears with his creation
While above the storm is raging

No one sees his loneliness
Just the beauty on the page
The words of his art keep him company
Making him feel alive

He writes in the day ge writes in the night
Becomes too tired to sleep
As long as he paints a picture in words
He drinks of eternal life


Inside me I have
A very dark place
That no one knows about
A secret that I must keep
A room for it to live in
With thick walls
Only I
Have the key to the door
Sometimes I long
To unlock the door
Let someone see in
And know the dark secret
It would stare them in the face
With startling eyes
Such as they would never forget
They would turn away
They would cover their eyes
And run
And I would lock the door
To the room again
And be afraid to unlock it
Ever again
And show the secret
To anyone


Moving to London felt like a huge culture shock to me. We lived in a flat provided by the Council, for whom my husband worked. It was at the top of a house, and we moved in in the middle of a heatwave. I have never lived anywhere so hot in my life before. The flat was airless, whatever we did to it, and the man who lived in the flat below us took every opportunity possible to verbally attack us for something. The streets were literally melting, and I longed to get back north again where it was cooler. Everyone seemed to live out on the streets too, even right through the night. Most of the men seemed to be carrying boom boxes on their shoulders. There certainly was no getting any sleep there.

We were in the process of selling our house back north, hoping that we would be able to afford something right out of London, though my husband would have to drive a fair distance in to work each day. On an evening we would often have a drive out, and take a walk on Hampstead Heath, which was a little more refreshing. We always went past Highgate Cemetery, and always, there were loads of milk bottles at the gate. We quite naturally assumed that the deaders had put them there because there were so many of them.

In time, our house back north sold, and we did find another one to buy in Waltham Abbey in Essex. It was a massive terraced house, on three floors, but when we looked round it, it was disgusting! Dark and dingy and looking almost unliveable in. However, I saw it through eyes that had painted all the walls, put new carpets down, and generally spruced it up.

We moved in, only to discover that it had its own rat population! Plus some dry rot! However,we soon got those things dealt with, and we started to settle down. Life was so very different there to how we had known it, and I felt homesick. I did take my motor bike with me though, and I rode around on it, trying to get to know the area a bit. One day I was on a roundabout that had a few lanes on it, and I wanted to go to Waltham Cross, but with all the lanes and all the traffic, I could not get into the lane I needed to be in. After going round the roundabout three times, a gap appeared on my left, in the exact opposite direction to what I wanted to go. Realising that I was never going to get off the roundabout if I didn’t seize my chance, I thought, “Oh bugger it, I’ll go to Chingford,” which was the only exit I could take.

Then my motor bike got stolen, and that was that. I felt gutted, but driving it around that area was definitely not my thing.

We didn’t make many friends there as it wasn’t really a very friendly place. I felt very lonely and out of place, and my husband had to go to Broadwater Farm at the time of the riots. It was an extremely frightening time, knowing he was going there. He also had to take the police into the drains in London, and he came face to face with rats!

All in all it was not a very celubrious experience living there. Not only that, but you could not get decent fish and chips either. Well, certainly they were nothing like we had back north!

I did used to play the piano a lot however, and most afternoons I would be sat at my piano playing away to my heart’s content, not realising that they could hear me in the shop next door that was attached to our house. I had been treating them to Beethoven, The Entertainer, a bit of jazz, and a few Gospel hymns thrown in for good measure. They had been stopping what they were doing especially to listen! I was astounded when I was told this. I had no idea that the sound carried so much!

After some time there, my husband did get another job back north, and we were on the move again.


I wrote this a while ago but it seems as true now as it did then.

As the wind screams around the house
My spirit too is screaming
A catastrophe has hit the world
And many now are dying
A day we thought we’d never see
But now it knocks at our door

Never will I open my door
Nothing can enter my house
Black clouds banked in the sky I see
Many souls I hear screaming
The sound of the pain of those who are dying
Echoing all through the world

What is going to become of our world
Does death knock at the door
How many are there who are dying
Who were not safe in their house
I never want to hear that screaming
Devastation is all I can see

Cover my eyes so I cannot see
Desolate is the world
Cover my ears against the screaming
I must lock my door
Can this thing get into my house
Would anyone know I was dying

No one wants to know they are dying
Only black clouds see
Once I sheltered in my house
Hid my face from the world
I rested safe behind my door
I never heard any screaming

But now the world is filled with screaming
Accompanying the dying
I gently open again my door
My eyes must open and see
And give the love of my heart to the world
Open the doors of my house

Whilst all I hear is screaming I see
From the safety of my house many dying
The pain of a tortured world lies here at my door


No longer
Can she be whole
Her world is stripped
Bare like the trees in winter
A body
That isn’t a body
Non functioning
In a way
That leaves her alone
And that is the nature of it all
That aloneness is the way
That life is
And all things
Are merely a distraction
From the aloneness that we fear
My friend
Until you know your aloneness
You cannot understand
The nature of all things


Sometimes it is best to leave

The chains that lock up freedom

Though said to be for our protection

Blind eyes see through the deception

As the light shines

Into the darkness of evil

Presented by another name

Our souls were not meant to be chained

Nor our heart’s love

Freedom awaits us in diverse places

Where the sky meets the earth

And we dwell in the place of liminality

Where the veil is rent in two

Breaking the chains of earth


Do you see the light?
I live in the dark
Where days hours minutes
Stretch in front of me
In a world that no one else
Wants to inhabit
A world of pain
That wracks my body
Each and every day
A world of dependence
Where no choices exist
Just a dragging draggibg dragging
Through every minute
Every second
The light comes in through my window
Can I take a walk?
No I can’t
I lie here in this bed
Day after day after day
Nothing to break the silence
Nothing to open up the lines
Of communication
I scream but no one hears
I cry silent tears
I know there is no point
That life does not matter
To some like me
Each movement hurts
And everyone is busy
I lie here


Your brightness calls,
Draws me on, enfolds me
In the living tree
Marked by time
What have
You seen?
If only you could speak, tell me
Of those who have trod here,
You guard all souls
Shield me

So long
I have been gone,
Since just a tiny babe,
And though I dwelt in farthest fields
Home is
Right here
Protect me now from all that ails
And bring me here to rest
Now, for all time
To come

May I
Now claim my home
Here in this hallowed place
For never did I forget you
You lived
Within a heart that held so much,
Both joy, and sorrow, now
I come back home
To rest