Aye the times - the words are lost –
Don’t you remember how many you stole?
Dear Sweet wind?
Or whence they blew
On dusty carcasses of mind
All left unstrewn
You pruned the thorns,
Cut back the brambles
Where once they snagged
They spoke without understanding
And the meaning was laid bare
Though it was oft’ askew
Fallow ground now
Those desolate moors once left undesolate
As the tors tore the snags from the brambles…
I wrote poetry then
Found in these soft and fallow places
Shall that wind blow thence again?
The words are there, Time will bide…
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