And let the feathers grow, flowing from my shoulders
And from the back of my skull where the
nameless, wordless monkey shouts
screaming in a cave of doubt
And let the feathers grow, so I might shed this skin
And from the phoenix fire give birth
To that jackdaw of knowledge, Chauk
One who shows me wind in flight
Written in a hangover - 18/6/00
Now promises made, by the sheepward's grave,
to keep the sheep from straying,
to fleshy grass, a brief repast,
have long now lost their saying,
of peace that comes by mutual aid,
by hand in hand, by praying.
For peace on earth may be to much,
to hope for ever after,
but more of peace and less of war,
and more of children's laughter,
For god the friend and god the good,
and less of god the master.
First draft - Written in Ilfracombe 24/10/99.