it was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry

water flows down this valley

wind blows round our houses

i have said it before yet seems that those who should know better

talk of gods

may judge the people

live in remote places

between mountain sea the land becomes

dry

this arid land

are you sleeping
while i watch the burial
the pain
the madness
the snowdrops

are you sleeping,
while they hold her up

still the dog goes on each day
slower now
still the morning comes

forge forward
with obsession

a
variety of colours

there is another language

came with madness

romanticism

there is no broken glass

no face  at the window no god no more

sea birds