When frigid fate has honed its claws upon this stricken soul,
and closed eyes can only watch for stolen dreams;
when there’s always a dark obstacle to bar me from my goal –
it’s then I tread the Tarmac paths to green.

A bright image of the reservoir forms inside my head,
embraced by stately pine and snowy hawthorn
and, as I quickly near this vision, a peace replaces dread;
I gather strength, and hope somehow re-forms.

As sheer chemise of satin shadow slips down verdant tor
to recline at gleaming feet of golden gorse,
I realise the unimportance of work, and wealth, and war:
the worthlessness of man’s careering course.

Thus, gradually, all care and woe drain from a tortured heart
to disperse upon my homeland’s bracing air.
Each time life’s traumatic tumbles have played their crippling part
in wounding me, I head for vistas fair.

Through the townland of Creevagh – out the long road to Killlea –
eagerly my trekking feet beat out the pain
upon an asphalt surface, which gaily makes its winding way
to the countryside which keeps this poet sane.


About phoenixmartin

C&G IT; BTEC Business Studies; BSc Hons Grad - Dipl Lit - published writer and poet working on play. Masters Ed
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s