From Montmartre to the Gare Du Nord,
the Faubourg St Denis drops down
through warrened streets of nothingness;
anonymous. At times: winter greyed and traffic roared;
There’s low scudding clouds on the sea today
and the rain lashes hard in my face
the boarded-up cafes have nothing to say
and I am alone in this place.
Spirit Of The Eagle
Once circling poised to stoop
somewhere between the top of the mountain
and the bottom of the sky.
Were there dreams enough to share for free
It was, in truth, a sort of tune
which sang a chattered dynasty
and gossiped through the evening hearts,
with scraping chairs around the room;
In All, In All
In all, in all, in coming then;
you come in grace
to walk down one fine morning.
And I shall gentle you in all,