© roy ballard 2013

The skies are grey;

your scent is on my pillow

though you are far away.

                      

                        Tangles

We are such tangles, such a skein of knots,

our threads and schemes thrown in chaotic state

by Fortune’s spite, bad luck in drawing lots

or by the double dealing hand of Fate.

How can we find the ends of all these ropes

and matted loops that should be separate?

Good order is the object of my hopes,

the tangles coiled up and securely set.

How can I find you amid so much choice

of convoluted cords and trapping lines

without direction or reliant voice?

At every move another snare entwines.

Yet you, my love, who are myself on wings,

cure every catch however close it clings.

 

                         Where we walk 

How black the winter seemed despite the snow

but when you stood beside me, took my hands,

a journey ended that had far to go

though we were travelling to foreign lands.

I dwell where you are; there I make my place,

beside bright mountains or the shifting sea,

in foreign palaces or commonplace;

if you are there then it is home to me.

What is a home? It’s not of bricks and mortar

but moves upon the earth like wind and water;

it’s where we walk in kind tranquillity;

it’s where you give your hand and heart to me.

A cloud hangs on our mountains, once so clear,
yet they still shine for me when you are near.