A gracious gift it is,
To share what we now owe,
Confess the weakest days,
That we may ever boast.

A little drizzle on the sandstone streets,
Stark amber yellow befriends a navy crease,
Pillars standing taciturn at its spurious spite,
Wade out of shadows, contemplate the span of night,
The noble faces of the streets in rows,
Grand titans dancing to the tunes of mortals here below,
Our history upon their weathered heads.
Our names are ever on them read.

So they shall sit to pass the time,
In thought that barely drips in rain,
To maybe light the newer day with our old lines,
To maybe crystallise our rushing joys and pains.

A poem for my Mother,
A banner marking narrow paths to tread,
A staff that guides me in His stead,
For these precious days of youth,
For these precious days of youth,

A poem for my Mother,
A firm handshake and jolly laugh,
A mother of many hats and parts,
For these busy days of youth,
For these busy days of youth,

Ramping up to leave the nest,
'Twas cozy but its for the best,
You've given me so firm a ground,
To hurtle off into the sky.

A staccato story,
A man walks,
To meet a friend,
It's bright out today,
Oops just passed the place,
Oh hey,
How longs the wait?
Oh well good to see you,
We should do this again,
A man walks,
Heading back,
It's a little quieter now.