Turner’s Bones

I met a sea captain abroad,
with a sadness did he sing,
for though he’d braved unchanged the oceans waves,
he was sure he’d surely sink.

Now, his ghosts are maids of phosphor,
his anchor six strings long,
I still see him around, singing in the town,
and taking the tides as they come.

I tried to ease my angels,
because a labour shared is halved,
though I can’t say I was too surprised,
when we wound up worlds apart.

So, I studied my own vices,
to carve them from the ghost,
and by stranger names I found my place,
in the rhythm of earth and bones.

And black wings a-rattle through the Autumn,
rustle out between the red and gold,
Oh, and where we walk, frost’ll follow,
taking root below, beyond.

Well, maybe I’m fieldfare,
a silhouette and gone,
and naught apart from a fluttering heart,
tying soul to song.

But whatever’s said in anger,
won’t bend or break what’s true:
if you lose your way, recall my faith,
and myself, I’m for the dew.

So, hare through the heather,
a song for the tide,
hold on, my love, and we’ll be just fine.
Savour the Summer,
savour the rain,
we’ll make it home and be together again.

Now, these words were eked out slowly,
in the dark after the stage,
in the reclaimed hours of restless hearts,
and raked across my page.

But in the silent fields, the twilight,
will utter her assent,
and what doubts share shadows there,
will bide on their intent.

And the words that rang in my father’s halls,
are oft-forgot but here recalled:
“He wanders not alone, not he,
who keeps the poets’ memory”.