Winter rains
Hard raining falling peppered the man in grey,
What time is take off in the early hours of a morning with Sullen skies?
How is it possible to move quicker without barging your way through fallen leaves
And running as fast as is humanly possible?
The pace was for the taking, he shifted the crimson sands of time and
Gave thanks.
He was thirsty and hungry and broke fast.
He forgot about the heavy early morning shower and continued and paused and created his own unique tempo.
He saw no-one until Dawn and could not find the words to say Hi.
When he had made his peace and worked as well as he wanted, he stopped and returned.
His mind was throbbing with thoughts of future success.
In the now, as he always elected to call it, he was content to remain in the dwelling he called his abode.
He went back with moments to hand, he was about to play in their band,
They reckoned it was not about the violin or cello,
The harmonica he saw spirited him on to play some more.
Over the dunes they came under cobalt-blue stained skies.
When would she be in his arms, they thought while she just taught in lines of Javan verse.
A sacred and secret code to which he alone was a part.
Both she and their loathed the time-wasters and the merry-go-round faster than thee people.
Those folk were to be avoided like a Black virus, capable, if unchecked, of rude propagation.
