GRAMPA’S DARKEST DAY
Darkness descended since
We lost our brightest light
Daddy carries you in his arms
In that tiny coffin gleaming white
Goodbye my precious little angel
I will see you in the sky tonight
JOYS OF A CHILDHOOD LOST
We virtually lived outside
Me and my friends
On long summer adventures
Until the days ends
But we wernt just
The fair weather sort
We played outside even
When days were short
Rolling around in piles
Of autumn leaves of gold
Splashing through puddles
Despite being told
Playing imaginary games
About being lost in the fog
running through the woods
Chasing the dog.
In winter when Saturday came
Then off we’d go
With luck we’d wake
To find a fresh fall of snow
Then we’d happily sledge
Across the snowy land
Or build a snowman
Till we can’t feel our hands
Hours pass in minutes
As we’d happily roam
But despite the cold
We didn’t rush to get home
When we did we crunched
Through the crisp winter frost
Those were the joys
Of a childhood lost
I WAS LITTLE MORE THAN A LAD
I was little more than a lad
And my hometown lay behind me
But I didn’t walk the road
As a lad for very long,
I quickly became a man
So I walked for many years
And for many miles
In country and in town
Working in the sweet smelling fields
And the foul odorous cities
But I wandered tall and proud
Now the road lead me home
And the path breathes life
Into my wistful heart
SUNDIAL
The sun burned bright
Its rays struck the sundial
And cast a shadow
Shown in sharp relief
From the gnomon
Upon the brass dial
And as the straight edge
Reaches three o’clock
It’s time to go
WHY DO WE NEVER LEARN?
Why do we never learn?
We look back at past mistakes
And yet we do the same again
We view history
Without learning the lessons
Time and time again
But every time
History repeats itself
The price goes up
THE STREET ANGELS HAVE TROD THE PATH
The Street Angels have trod the path
For Five years on Woking’s streets
Armed only with Gods light
And their calming influence
They are Not preachers of the word
Nor are they there to evangelise
They are the doers of deeds
The holders of hands
And the wipers of tears
They are a friendly face in the dark
Or a soothing word in the confusion
A conduit to common sense
The Angels do not judge
Nor are they there to chastise
Angels listen with sympathetic ears
And speak in a voice of pleasant reason
They give up their time
For the lost and the vulnerable
And the over enthusiastic revellers
Until the last club closes.
The Street Angels
Do not police the streets
But they do tread the path
And they are part of the peace
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