Its A Sheeps Soul, Poem By : fayaz bhat
Its A Sheeps Soul
By : fayaz bhat
O cherisher! Of hairy goats, rocky ridges,
Still vales and white-woolen sheep;
Of my love, of melodies, of muses, of her beau;
It’s the soul of a forgotten sheep
Looking for her poor pastor, his white drove
And, the rest in shade;
Or ‘tis a shepherd, a shepherdess more,
Singing in solitude, rhyme, underneath a tree
In the relaxed midday of jubilant springs,
Ballads, lounged beside the sitting slept sheep.
Or; ‘tis that boy in the wild highs
Playing floyera reclined on the mossy rock—
Goats bleat and forget to graze;
Waking up the beasts, waking up the breeze,
Eared by the deer, cheered by the crows,
’lauded by the woods, echoed by the vale.
Free her! Guide her! For it says so sweet:
My abode’s among the weeds,
The wild flowers grow, the stony meads live.
Gort, Eyeries, Beara peninsula, west cork, Where the sky meets the sea
Where the sky meets the sea
I heard you contemplating so far beyond
Just thinking about it all
And it seems to scare you more than
I ever would before
And I’m a little anxious
But I don’t know why
Trying to find me an answer that
Fits inside my head
Trying to wish away the subtleties
Wishing you would stay in bed
And I’m a little cautious
But I don’t know why
Where the sky meets the sea
We’ll be different just you see
Broken lines can only breakthrough
Heaven and shades of blue
I stumble when you’re shaking I break when you’re
Breaking away from it all
I hide when you’re hiding, and I can’t
Spend all my time holding on
And I’m a little nervous
But I don’t know why
Where the sky meets the sea
We’ll be different just you see
Broken lines can only breakthrough
Heaven and shades of blue
When I’m Gone , Poem By : Lyman Hancock
When I’m Gone
by : Lyman Hancock
When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile
Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile
Forget unkind words I have spoken
Remember some good I have done
Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I’ve had loads of fun
Forget that I’ve stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way
Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day
Then forget to grieve for my going
I would not have you sad for a day
But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay
And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west
Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best
Sunday Evening in the Mountains
In the Mountains
—Li Bai [Li Po]
Why do I live among the green mountains?
I laugh and don’t answer.
My soul is calm:
It dwells in another heaven and earth
Belonging to no one.
The peach trees are in flower.
The water flows on.
—Li Bai [Li Po]
Like the waves , Poem by Cyrille Octaviano
Like the waves
Cyrille Octaviano
clashing against one another
Struggling to keep up,
but aware of the power
Rising up,
streaming drown
rushing and hurdling
coming ashore
As the sun radiates
illuminating the water,
I can see crystal clear
there is hope.
Kilkenny landscapes (harvest time) , The Harvest Poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
The Harvest
Written by Duncan Campbell Scott
Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheat
Stir in the sunshine,
Rounding the hill-top,
Crested with plenty,
Filling the valley,
Brimmed with abundance,
Wind in the wheat-field
Eddying and settling,
Swaying it, sweeping it,
Lifting the rich heads,
Tossing them soothingly
Twinkle and shimmer
The lights and the shadowings,
Nimble as moonlight
Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors
Of peace and of plenty,
Soft comes the wind
From the ranks of the wheat-field,
Bearing a promise
Of harvest and sickle-time,
Opulent threshing-floors
Dusty and dim
With the whirl of the flail,
And wagons of bread,
Sown-laden and lumbering
Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles,
Bending and grasping,
Shearing and spreading;
When will the gleaners
Searching the stubble
Take the last wheat-heads
Home in their arms ?
Ask not the question! –
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Hunger and poverty
Heaped like the ocean
Welters and mutters,
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of children
Born to their mothers’ womb,
Starved at the nipple, cry,–
Ours is the harvest!
Millions of women
Learned in the tragical
Secrets of poverty,
Sweated and beaten, cry,–
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of men
With a vestige of manhood,
Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,
Shout with a leonine
Accent of anger,
Leaves us the wheat-fields!
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles?
Ask not the question;
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpened
Their fiery, impetuous
Sickles of carnage,
Welded them aeons
Ago in the mountains
Of suffering and anguish;
Hearts were their hammers
Blood was their fire,
Sorrow their anvil,
(Trusty the sickle
Tempered with tears;)
Time they had plenty-
Harvests and harvests
Passed them in agony,
Only a half-filled
Ear for their lot;
Man that has taken
God for a master
Made him a law,
Mocked him and cursed him,
Set up this hunger,
Called it necessity,
Put in the blameless mouth
Juda’s language:
The poor ye have with you
Always, unending.
But up from the impotent
Anguish of children,
Up from the labor
Fruitless, unmeaning,
Of millions of mothers,
Hugely necessitous,
Grew by a just law
Stern and implacable,
Art born of poverty,
The making of sickles
Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fields
Come the weird reapers
Armed with their sickles,
Whipping them keenly
In the fresh-air fields,
Wild with the joy of them,
Finding them trusty,
Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants,
The Idea for captain,
No banners, no bugles,
Only a terrible
Ground-bass of gathering
Tempest and fury,
Only a tossing
Of arms and of garments;
Sexless and featureless,
(Only the children
Different among them,
Crawling between their feet,
Borne on their shoulders;)
Rolling their shaggy heads
Wild with the unheard-of
Drug of the sunshine;
Tears that had eaten
The half of their eyelids
Dry on their cheeks;
Blood in their stiffened hair
Clouted and darkened;
Down in their cavern hearts
Hunger the tiger,
Leaping, exulting;
Sighs that had choked them
Burst into triumphing;
On they come, Victory!
Up to the wheat-fields,
Dreamed of in visions
Bred by the hunger,
Seen for the first time
Splendid and golden;
On they come fluctuant,
Seething and breaking,
Weltering like fire
In the pit of the earthquake,
Bursting in heaps
With the sudden intractable
Lust of the hunger:
Then when they see them-
The miles of the harvest
White in the sunshine,
Rushing and stumbling,
With the mighty and clamorous
Cry of a people
Starved from creation,
Hurl themselves onward,
Deep in the wheat-fields,
Weeping like children,
After ages and ages,
Back at the mother the earth.
Night in the valley,
Gloom on the mountain,
Wind in the wheat,
Far to the southward
The flutter of lightning,
The shudder of thunder;
But high at the zenith,
A cluster of stars
Glimmers and throbs
In the gasp of the midnight,
Steady and absolute,
Ancient and sure
Irish Landscape(Kilkenny) with a Poem : Independent Heart , by Jodie Moore
Independent Heart
Soft words you spoken
From the heart that is broken
I know deep inside
You have a level of independence
With a mystery of suspense
You are recovering
Waiting for someone
To catch on to the discovering
Of the real you
With a heart so true
Giving of your best
Expecting nothing less
While hurt is making amends
Leaning on loving friends
Accounted for in time you spend
With words you write
Not giving into a broken hearts flight
Staying strong
Carrying others like me along
by Jodie Moore
Monday Poetry : You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Us
You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Us
By : Lady Ravenwolf
Do as you will and harm none, ever mind the rule of three
Is one of the most important rules of the wiccan reed
Lets take a look back in history
Ways of the old lost within time
All but forgotten, shrouded in mystery
They were a peaceful kind
Yet thousands met such an untimely demise
The ultimate betrayal of mankind
She’s a witch, they’d point and scream
Those were the burning times
You mortals forever ignorant
She is one of many
With blood line ever strong
Her daughters are alive and well
Apparently you missed a few
The witch seen before you
Is a new kind of breed
Dressed completely in black
Morning the death of sisters past
I will forget my own path
Dancing between the worlds
Choosing to walk the in the gray
My magic is powerful
Though I seek not to harm
I will protect what is me and mine
This will be a finial warning
It is most unwise to cross me
With the flick of my hand
A curse will be placed
With a piercing cackle heard
The Firewood Poem, By : Celia Congreve
The Firewood Poem
Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year,
Chestnut’s only good they say,
If for logs ’tis laid away.
Make a fire of Elder tree,
Death within your house will be;
But ash new or ash old,
Is fit for a queen with crown of gold
Birch and fir logs burn too fast
Blaze up bright and do not last,
it is by the Irish said
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread.
Elm wood burns like churchyard mold,
E’en the very flames are cold
But ash green or ash brown
Is fit for a queen with golden crown
Poplar gives a bitter smoke,
Fills your eyes and makes you choke,
Apple wood will scent your room
Pear wood smells like flowers in bloom
Oaken logs, if dry and old
keep away the winter’s cold
But ash wet or ash dry
a king shall warm his slippers by.
Irish mountains in Black and white , 6 images
Irish Mountain Photography
Nigel Borrington
Because Ireland is a small country (32,599 square miles), fitting into the State of Indiana, you are never that far from anywhere or any type of Landscape (Coast, rivers and Mountains).
I find it almost impossible to choose my favorite type of landscape but I do love getting up high above the fields and towns. There is something captivating about looking out over the views below and clearing your mind.
I also feel that Black and white photography is just perfect for these places, capturing only the tones of the landscape below and the big open sky’s above, filled with the ever changing moments that the Irish weather can bring.
The Old Mountains
by Edwin Curran
The old mountains are tall, silent men
Standing with folded arms, looking over the world,
Lonesome and lofty in their manner.
They have seen empires come and go,
Civilizations rise and fall,
Stars break on their breasts.
They are full of history like great books,
And are merely the stone monuments that the kindly Gods
Built for the human race, to mark its passing tomorrow.
Irish Mountains, A Gallery
Monday Poetry , Wild Woodbine By : Joan McBreen
Wild Woodbine
Joan McBreen
Wild woodbine was beyond my reach
in the thick hedges round Lough Gill.
The heavy scent filled the house for days
when my father brought it in
and it stayed fresh far longer
then meadowsweet.
Because I loved the delicate
pink and white wild rose
he picked it too, cursing the thorns, muttering
“it dies too soon,
you’d be better leaving it alone”.
Yet once, when my mother
swept its petals from the floor
I saw him rescue one
and place it carefully
in the small wallet
where he kept her photograph.
Wild Woodbine
Monday Poetry : Advice from a Tree, By : Ilan Shamir
Advice from a Tree
By Ilan Shamir
Dear Friend,
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter
Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!
Endless Streams and Mountains
Endless Streams and Mountains
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Endless Streams and Mountains
Clearing the mind and sliding in
to that created space,
a web of waters steaming over rocks,
air misty but not raining,
seeing this land from a boat on a lake
or a broad slow river,
coasting by.
The path comes down along a lowland stream
slips behind boulders and leafy hardwoods,
reappears in a pine grove,
no farms around, just tidy cottages and shelters,
gateways, rest stops, roofed but unwalled work space,
—a warm damp climate;
a trail of climbing stairsteps forks upstream.
Big ranges lurk behind these rugged little outcrops—
these spits of low ground rocky uplifts
layered pinnacles aslant,
flurries of brushy cliffs receding,
far back and high above, vague peaks.
A man hunched over, sitting on a log
another stands above him, lifts a staff,
a third, with a roll of mats or a lute, looks on;
a bit offshore two people in a boat.
The trail goes far inland,
somewhere back around a bay,
lost in distant foothill slopes
& back again
at a village on the beach, and someone’s fishing.
Rider and walker cross a bridge
above a frothy braided torrent
that descends from a flurry of roofs like flowers
temples tucked between cliffs,
a side trail goes there;
.
a jumble of cliffs above,
ridge tops edged with bushes,
valley fog below a hazy canyon.
A man with a shoulder load leans into the grade.
Another horse and a hiker,
the trail goes up along cascading streambed
no bridge in sight—
comes back through chinquapin or
liquidambars; another group of travelers.
Trail’s end at the edge of an inlet
below a heavy set of dark rock hills.
Two moored boats with basket roofing,
a boatman in the bow looks
lost in thought.
Hills beyond rivers, willows in a swamp,
a gentle valley reaching far inland.
The watching boat has floated off the page.
Wild Orchids – Three Poems for Friday…..
Patricia Drake
Feb 26, 2013
Orchids
She had tried to grow them
For years she had watched others
How they had theirs
Bloom
But nothing happened in her
Windowsill
Now they sat there
Beautiful and vibrant
For all to admire
Through her window
Forever perfect
Sewn
Not grown
EP Mason
Jan 2, 2014
The organs of orchids
I hope that when I die
the insides of me
are placed into
the insides of the needy
so that they can bloom like flowers
And the rest of me
is buried with the Earth
so the prettiest flowers can grow from my bones
and bloom in my soul
knowing I gave my life to nature
and all her children
Marie-Chantal
Ireland’s Wild Orchids
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.
The gardener’s son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.
I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady’s Tresses
Made me think of you.
Monday Poetry , Time along a rivers ……
I walk along a river
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday Poetry , Time along a rivers ……
I walk along a River of Time,
do I move or is it the waters?
Can I match its pace?
It flows by, driving my very thoughts,
without any meaning, in my reality,
for that I need to jump in !
What day is this, what hour?
this flow has no meaning,
is it without power?
A cause without effect?
For me the water flows by eternally
but
It’s end is out at sea.
I Stand aware of my place in the Universe,
forever alive, outside of good or bad,
changing form so many times,
did I not come from this water?
I cannot remember!
Neutral I stand, judging not,
Just watching this River.
It flows by,
with my fingers pushed in,
Momentarily touching me,
It’s power drives me on!
This river is all about the giver …
The Universe of power ….
The one without time…
Nigel 2015
Friday Poems : The River , Catherine, from Liverpool
The River Suir, County Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Friday and this weekend is the last one of June, I plan to do some long river walks with our Dog Molly ….
What ever you do this weekend I hope you have a great time and get to escape for a while, have a great weekend !!!
The River
Catherine, Liverpool
It starts at a source as a little trickle
Then flows down the mountain,
Following a steep and narrow path.
As it rushes down it is joined by many other tributaries,
Changing it from a small, shallow stream
To a big, deep river
The water is clear and unpolluted,
Icy blue and sparkling
But always icy cold too.
It crashes as it flows,
Forming bubbling foam
That fills the air with cold white spray.
As the current pushes it on, it erodes away the rocks,
Leaving small, smooth banks
For it to easily pass by.
It deepens and widens as it runs down the mountain,
Soon entering a valley
With the sea in view.
It finally comes to its end,
An estuary leading into the sea
Ending its long journey from the mountain.
But it will start its journey again
When the sun evaporates it from the sea
And drops it down as rain.
Tree By The River – Poem by Manonton Dalan
Tree by the river Barrow Kilkenny
TREE BY THE RIVER
Gigantic tree’s canopy, there I lay
Dreaming how the world could be
Beyond those clouds, the horizon
Would there be one like me, alone
Got up pick up the roundest stone
Cast to the river and glide by its own
Hits a ripple, goes airborne
For a kid like me, it is a phenom
By the grassy banks, frogs abound
Love to disturb them,
into the river they plunge
Never tried to catch them because they slime
So beautiful, shiny greenish yellow, brown
Water is crystal clear,
see fishes swimming
Stones unturned are coated with stringy green
Constantly dancing as the little shells cling
Reach down to touch the water
Felt something came to me, a power
Don’t know what it was but still here
Manonton Dalan
The Little Ghost, A poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high — higher than most —
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone —
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown’s white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do — and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled — there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused — then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
My Secret Place, Jeremy – all poetry . com
My Secret Place
There’s a magical place that I often visit,
where all of my dreams and wishes come true.
A special place where I can be myself,
where happiness always seems to follow through.
In this place are creatures that roam,
so beautiful, magnificent, and free.
Just like us they have open hearts,
and a special language that they speak.
The forests here are so alive,
plentiful are the fruits that they bare.
Nothing but peace and harmony dwells within,
and tranquility floats in and around the air.
There is no sun or moon,
the temperature is always just right.
You can sleep all day and never have to worry,
about having to leave here at night.
Patience is a way of life here,
no one rushes to get to where they want to be.
People hold their heads up high and smile,
they’re always proud to have you in their company.
You can find all of the solitude that you seek,
love and peace are so ominous here.
Every one respects and supports one another,
and their trust and loyalty will never disappear.
In tiny little caves live the most beautiful elves,
many with families of their very own.
Each one is unique with his or her own colors,
always seeking friends, never wanting to be alone.
The elves come out and frolic in the forests,
while unicorns roam and graze in the grassy fields.
With their powerful and majestic wings,
they bring a feeling of strength and security.
Fairies fly free throughout,
their fluttering wings sparkling bright.
Lighting up this magical universe,
like thousands of lanterns dancing in the night.
Stars decorate the clear night sky,
blazing afar, wanting to be seen.
They bring hope and encouragement to one and all,
creating a wonderful and tranquil scene.
The unicorns are so delicate yet strong,
their awesome presence will captivate you instantly.
Enchanting the hearts of all who come across them,
nothing can ever stand up to their uniqueness and beauty.
This is a place that I turn to,
whenever I am down and blue.
A wonderful and exciting trip,
that I would recommend for everyone, even you.
Friends, please take my hand and join me,
let us fly away into the sky.
Where miracles happen every day,
so that you don’t have to wish or cry.
You will love this enchanted place,
my special and wonderful escape from time.
It helps me to forget about my problems and sorrows,
Even though it only exists in the back of my mind.
Monday Morning Poems : “A Red, Red Rose” by : Robert Burns
Like a Red Rose in June
Nigel Borrington
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
My love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June :
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I :
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun :
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my love,
Thou’ it were ten thousand mile.
Mischievous Joy, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Mischievous Joy of a butterfly
Image : Nigel Borrington
Mischievous Joy
Poem by : Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
AS a butterfly renew’d,
When in life I breath’d my last,
To the spots my flight I wing,
Scenes of heav’nly rapture past,
Over meadows, to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy,
And I look down from my seat
On the beauteous maiden’s head–
When embodied there I meet
All I lost as soon as dead,
Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile,
And his mouth the hour improves,
Sent by kindly Deities;
First from breast to mouth it roves,
Then from mouth to hands it flies,
And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hov’ring near;
Trembling at her lovers rapture,
Up she springs–I fly away,
“Dearest! let’s the insect capture
Come! I long to make my prey
Yonder pretty little dear!”
Monday Poetry , Canal Life, By : Ian McMillan
Ian McMillan
Canal Life
The canal tells you stories
The canal sings you songs
They hang in that space
Between memory and water
Once saw a narrowboat raised up,
Like it was cutting through the air,
Between two grass walls and the road below
Like it was sliding through history,
And a tiny vole swam across the water
So a tiny vole swam through history.
The canal tells you stories
The canal sings you songs
Once saw a man floating belly up in a canal
Like he was in the bath. He shouted
‘This is the life’ as I passed by on a narrowboat;
The sky was reflected in the surface
And we tied up in the places the map never showed us,
The man floating by, making ripples on the surface.
They hang in that space
Between memory and water
Once got waved at by a jogger as I stood gongoozling
On the towpath; her running gave rhythm
To the early afternoon, dog-strollers and kids
Who’d rather be here than sitting in school.
To gongoozle is to stand and watch narrowboats pass
And a canal is a lesson, a water-based school.
The canal tells you stories
The canal sings you songs
Once these canals were information highways
If coal and iron can be information,
And I think they can be. And there are bridges,
Pub gardens, the laughter of children
As they walk by the water; and the canals
Turn us all into curious children.
They hang in that space
Between memory and water
Once is never enough for a canal, I reckon;
You need to go back and see it again,
And sail it again, and smell it again, and
Touch it again; canals run through our veins
Like they stroll through this country
Like blood through our veins.
The canal tells you stories
The canal sings you songs
They hang in that space
Between memory and water
“The unquiet spirit of a dandelion plume”, Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz
Dandelion
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Dandelion
By : Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz
In the meadow-grass
The innocent white daisies blow,
The dandelion plume doth pass
Vaguely to and fro, –
The unquiet spirit of a flower
That hath too brief an hour.
The Old Lane Through The Woods – Poem by jim hogg , Kilkenny Landscape photography
The Old Lane Through The Woods
Black and white landscapes
Nigel Borrington
The Old Lane Through The Woods –
Poem by jim hogg
There’s a track through the trees from the White to the Black
that I walked as a kid and I often went back.
Now the years slip away and the distances grow,
but if time gives us time and we get to change tack
if the notion should take you then I’d gladly go:
in wildest November before winter’s trance,
at the height of the spring when the daffodils dance.
We could stand on the bank where the Rhodies convene,
like the first of our kind who looked down on that scene,
on a loch with no name, with no castles around,
or old burial ground of the meek and the mean;
though the rich bled the poor, by the sod they’re all bound.
Or we’ll maybe just stay on the old woodland road
and head north to the Black with the odd jumping toad.
There’s a whole constellation of things we can view.
In the summer there’s herons and sometimes deer too,
and there’s dodging and weaving through armies of leaves.
Though the foxgloves are rare I’ll find one just for you,
and then swing on the Ivy through Sycamore trees.
If you ever have time we could wander off down
that old lane through the woods whether wintry or lown.
But I know all too well that this life is a crush.
There’d be too much to do if we didn’t all rush.
And I wonder sometimes how it all went so wrong;
but they’re calling it progress with hardly a blush –
in a world where rich hippies can still sing along.
There’s a place where that craziness doesn’t hold sway;
if you’re ever back home we could go there some day
Nigel Borrington 
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