Power of pistons
Through the smoke
As in a dream
Where oil and sweat
Did once combine
To harness time
Their hands devined
New methods to enhance
Onto anvils fell
With mettle’s ring
They sound the knel
Hard ending there
Was natures reign
In revolution’s name
Such beauty in its simplest form
Those tears which from your eyes do fall
The smile which after graces lips
At what you feel when sorrow lifts
The knowledge that within your soul
Is all you needed to be whole
The fire cracks in the homely hearth
As memories and stories flow,
Recounting each our winding path;
Long years and days divide, we know,
Yet always we return at last
To ties which bound us long ago,
The memories of childhood past:
Of winter games amidst the snow.
When in some autumn year we meet,
And talk again of years before,
Will we in memories repeat
These patterns which the flames restore?
Of cherry whisky, tartan pleats,
Bad music choices fast deplored,
The plans which may yet come to be
And those that by the wayside fall.
If I should drift across the sea
Sharp memories of this may fade,
But always something here will be
That will not wane with groaning age;
A lifetime built of memories
The sum of which I’ll gladly pay
Whether my life shall set me free
Or drag me to an early grave.
I look across this now so foreign world,
As thick grey smoke of progress blots the sun,
And choke on futures bought for blood not earned,
With heaviness, my heart is come undone.
For towers graze a sky which once was blue,
With wooded hills the pinnacles of land,
Blessed old now fast replaced with brutal new,
And sadly gone is beauty at their hand.
I wake from startling dreams which leave me ill,
Of futures which I pray will never come,
Look out the window to see green of hills
And dawning over mountains, golden sun.
Might I, with nature, hold against the tide
And walk these hills, in love of nature’s pride.
Pristine and punctual,
Right as it should be.
Correctly, with a
Tick-tock clockwork, an
Ornately crated for the measurement of