I can see it all quite clearly and how dear to me it is,
the night drawn as a starlit sky, the dreams known
as we pass them by and shown only to the Tarot reader,
the seeds we plant that grow and in the winter go and grow again come spring, the birds that freely sing as they steal the air beneath their wings,
it brings an unchained memory fall
from a small boy to an old man
between the span of two hands on the
The pretty girls, the country girls, the city girls,
the girls who sought the cultured pearls,
the girls who bought the stories told them
by some men and lost them in their later life
part and parcel?
at times the living’s terrible
© 2020, John Smallshaw.