Life’s
Privileged Throne
Wetting grey dense fog, in early
morns light
Still slow and muffled, with grey sea quiet
Silence and damp, a gentle tinkle of tide
In the far distance growling, a ship does ride
We stand by the tinkle, which sneaks up on us
Tides soft creeping wetness, a slow slow rush
Stepping back a little, we retreat with grace
Not disturbing the magic, of this eerie eerie place
We muse at the quiet, the still
isolated feel
Out of time and place, reality does peel
Away from us, as we stand by the tide
Quiet otherness invades, and we pause to smile
Of moments like this, are sweet memories made
And we both remember, the feel of this veil
A oneness of two, together we felt
The weave of this time, like knots carved by a Celt
We move on up to, the ancient
castle of stone
It’s bleak and it’s crumbling, of histories
long tome
Of stories and battles, of ancient past times
Of Vikings and Picts, and of Celts weaving lines
The strangeness of day, and the feel of those times
Touch us together, as through mist we do climb
The inside of the tome, has hearths of old stone
And stairs to the sky, on which spirits must roam
What a strange wonderful morn,
with feelings like these
To share the experience, as together we weave
This memory of two, at one with this place
And of the times past, and of histories pace
We were lucky that day, to experience this
And to feel the flow, of times swift abyss
For we are here now, but we will be gone
And today we shared, life’s privileged throne
To be one with those, who
have gone before
And to share the feel, of their history and lore
Is a link felt most keen, and brings wonder and
calm
And to futures parting, will be as a balm
For one day we must part, on this earthly shore
But we will carry memories, which in time will mean
more
And although the gulf, of past being will widen
Souls memory is deep, and will be our sweet garden
Copyright: Michael Birch February 2006
