Oh the thrill it is with me still As the dream persists for good or ill
But to recapture its flavour each time it occurs is never to savour the tang that taste of the original
The first touch was always the best for then before the sting had been sucked before the loss of its life blood now decayed the essence that made the sharpness that gave the serpent’s bite the bitter tang of its toxic fang
So little remains to colour that repeating dream its haunting theme that stays to haunt my dimming days to drown my darkening nights
What causes my thought’s directions From where do ideas come
Insouciance and nonchalance Two words I rarely use Both jumped at me this morning Sprang unheralded Into my mind As if from a nowhere Hypnogogic state Ambushed my thoughts Set me thinking Why? Where did they spring from How does my hurting waking brain produce them dredge them up from some subliminal dream From my subconscious being Is it the sound they make Their sibilance Their warmth They don’t frustrate Not threatening They’re gentle Just a glimpse of stillness Of satisfying peace Gentle Smooth Crying out to be used To be spoken For me to use To be indulged
Aaaah! But that is the nature Of dreaming Solace to a shrunken Unfulfilled Mind
Agog With awe And gripped With fright How can I last For one More night
My awe My fear Hold me In thrall A lasting Longing Curtain call
I sleep I dream I know My place ‘Tis full Of pain With-out God’s grace
For all My sins I can’t A-tone I’m lost I’m gone I am Mere bone
Des-pair And dread Are my Mill-stone Worn as Penance On my Head-stone
To you Who now Will hear My story I pray You will My fate Be-moan
History generally lays the blame for the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, on his former close friend, King Henry II, who, in 1174, did penance at Becket’s tomb in Canterbury Cathedral.
No. Not Muddy Waters, Nor even Crystal Waters. It was Still Waters. Yes, that’s what we called him.
He called himself Walter. Walter Waters from Watford And places South of the Gap. My one-time boss Head man Big chief of the Trendy Tribe Leader of the Pliant Pack.
I could never fathom him. Not him Nor his fawning hangers-on. Still waters run deep they say. I’d say that still waters are stagnant, Not much running there Algae-filled, dark green and smelly – Rancid in fact, And deliriously avoidable.
Yes, that’s him without doubt. Going nowhere – fast or any other speed. Him to a ‘t’ ; a Capital ‘T’. I’d say that fits his bill.
Yet he thinks he’s life and soul of the party. God’s Gift to the Agency.
Some party! Some life?! Worth a dream, But never a second meeting.