There are homes
There are homes
In the valley below
The heat of them
Melting the falling snow
Before it reaches the roofs
The winding wheels
Wet with drizzle
The air filled with
A crescendo of men
Who live to die
Before they get much older
Whether it be here
Or on the battleground
Where the fates are hungry
The blood cheap
The warmth of it seeping
Into muddied ground
Levelled in vain.
Bitter is the dark soil
From which tall trees grow
Either side of the waterway.
Fast is the flow
Bubbling in its nature
Full of conversation,
An endless babble.
If only it was more understood
Than heard in passing.
The old millwheel
Steals a word or two.
Barely do we see them now
As old ways die
Along with the passage
Of time
Which I have wont to find
A place for,
In the fading
Evanescence of morning.
Nothing ever lingers
For longer
Than a moment.
Even as the cold river falls
It changes
The sweetness disappears
In stages
As it breaches to the sea.
Drained of energy
Dissipated
Into an endless ocean,
A reservoir
In constant animation.
A vibrant spirit
Yearning to be free.