God allows some nettles among our flowers,
And as we encounter these days of frown.
From the far horizon, a confluence of showers,
To retain life's garden from remaining brown.
Periodically we see our vitality shattered,
As eternal sleep beckons those we love.
We clutch God's hand as days are tattered,
Thistles fixate vision on the throne above.
As we yank at nettles we find seed scatter,
We cultivate and dress our flowers with dung.
The lesson, if learned, only Grace will matter,
Not our slight of hand or glibness of tongue.
On sunny days when universe seems bright,
God discerns we're once more at our best.
Exposed thistles disappear amid God's light,
And He awaits to assist in our next life test.
Love is unlike the game of chess,
as time moves on it matters less,
in absence, fonder grows the heart
of someone else less far apart.
The pressure fades upon the will,
and like a blue remembered hill
idealised in childhood ways
is bare remembered nowadays.
Emotions stray and gravitate
to other souls when time grows late
and vows once made with ease are broke,
"I love you" with fresh glibness spoke.
Is this the way it ends for us,
no bang, no whimper, mess or fuss;
just simple gasps, forgotten sighs
and flecks of storm cloud in our eyes.
It is the girl in the car, on warm leatherette,
Who, in the Summer slipstream, teased the wheel
And gunned her engine heart;
She graced the passing furnace air, and angel sweat
Tracked slowly down her singing spine, for her to feel
Ignition spark and start.
And in her moistened loins the truth it rang
A clear and sensual focus, some chaste alarm
Forewarning her affirming stance;
She knew the throttle deviance, and words that hang
In glibness in a one track mind, such charm
Insinuate it's way into her pants.
She scanned the roads ahead, acknowledged fork,
Twin signs with arrows, nervous, highly strung,
And take a wilder stab at chance;
Procure the empty fast lane or get out and walk,
Race to cold and shallow sex and silver tongue,
Or ramble down the highways of romance.
The tumbling of the dice, herself to know,
When, the vulture Summer flying through,
Chilled in the Mustang embrace;
And remaining in the car, yet took it slow,
And holding on, and to herself be true,
And smiled within the smile upon her face.
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