She moves me,

She moves me,

In so many different ways.

I can even say yes,

When it should be no.

I carry her with me, where ever I go,

And think of her,

Even when my mind

Is set on other things.

Driving in the car,

She is the early evening star,

That beckons me homeward.

Past a rusting graveyard,

Filled with the bodies

Of old tin cans,

And burning mounds of tyres.

A thousand funeral pyres

Discolouring the sky,

As the caravan snakes slowly by.

And the thought of her

Makes me smile.

Winding through the back lane,

Surrounded by rapeseed,

And the country smells

Of organic fertilizer

And animal feed.

I skirt the edge of a pile of

Rubbish, slyly tipped

At the gate of a fallow field,

Spoiling this rural reverie,

And blotting the landscape

For you and me,

Or anyone else who cares to see.

And with a shake of my head

I think about her instead,

Lying warm, beside me

In our own bed.

And it is a comfort.

It helps me through the journey

Of the days,

And draws me safely homeward,

Always.