a simple solution

do not remark each simple turn
nothing is here that we could gain
for all our effort might and main
the stone below us will not burn
it still rebukes us hard and stern
each one may read its message plain
it does not change for sun or rain
while we for quicker changes yearn
beyond this rock the branches sway
a simple breeze creates the dance
as formally the long limbs bow
these are the signs of middle day
the birds and flowers all advance
the coming bareness of each bough
this is the signal we'll see now
each course will join a common way
though children in the gardens prance
this and no more we can avow
all change we make bywork or play
our pleasant visions come by chance
they are what this life will allow
but there are other lights that come
and in their presence we are dumb

a filtered light

what counts is not what we may think
day and night with mind and hand
we draw ourselves back from the brink

things vanish in a sudden wink
the standard message is so bland
what counts is not what we may think

the weight of life sets in the ink
still as we listen for the band
we draw ourselves back from the brink

ultimate search for the truest link
between the worker and the land
what counts is not what we may think

light does not seek the meanest chink
but illuminates the doorways grand
we draw ourselves back from the brink

thirst drives us to the clearest drink
that's all that we may understand
what counts is not what we may think
we draw ourselves back from the brink

ballade of middle day

clouds scud across a watery blue sky
you catch the whole thing with a glance
no birds at noon could ever want to fly
the sprinklers operate with elegance
there's nothing here that's left to chance
within we don't hear one false sound
good music the calm silence will enhance
each of us claims our little bit of ground

the rubbish van has now been by
i sit here thinking almost in a trance
there's so much left that i must try
travel once more to spain and france
write words that will my hopes advance
see what new chores will come around
in hope that we'll have more romance
each of us claims our little bit of ground

it's not a time either to laugh or cry
the thought of night must each entrance
there's never need to be snide or sly
no knight will this day break his lance
nor yet in armour take his proper stance
in hope that none will climb the mound
there's no steed here to stamp or prance
each of us claims our little bit of ground

prince these are no matters of high finance
we'll not hear speech of dollar nor of pound
instead we've summoned all to the next dance
each of us claims our little bit of ground

no moments in the sun

there are no moments in the sun
for those who cannot do the job
the battle's neither lost nor won

always we wonder what we've done
to keep from expressing the sob
there are no moments in the sun

the weight of time will always stun
both the most humble and the nob
the battle's neither lost nor won

no priest or bonze no monk or nun
can give the message to the mob
there are no moments in the sun

we are not asked to greet nor shun
the ones whose hearts no longer throb
the battle's neither lost nor won

against the end there is no gun
not one who laughs but will then sob
there are no moments in the sun
the battle's neither lost nor won

a sticky wickets

no wonder that there's never grace
in doing only what's assigned
the course of all that comes to mind
requires not just a simple space
the run-up sets the quickest pace
we're never sure about the kind
of power that makes us all seem blind
but certain that it has its place
no wonder that there are no sights
so wonderful as that final zone
where all of us can find some peace
these are the sorts of summer nights
when we are heated to the bone
and sharpened right down to the crease