odour of woodsmoke

there is a ghost that hangs about the fire
made out of memories and dead folks' pain
we note it only through our deep desire

on sundays we are loudest in the choir
the better to forget the weekly strain
there is a ghost that hangs about the fire

reminding us that each is still a liar
and nothing that we say is truly plain
we note it only through our deep desire

for what we know the future might acquire
in recollection of the fallen rain
there is a ghost that hangs about the fire

an unquiet air that leads each to perspire
and will negate each moment of our gain
we note it only through our deep desire

upon this mountain we're taught to aspire
where others would with greater sense abstain
there is a ghost that hangs about the fire
we note it only through our deep desire

repeated nightmare

enough to dream but not to see the dawn
what is desired may not awake the heart
to know that certain magic from the start

instead each of us fears that note of scorn
all of its weight will strike like a sharp dart
enough to dream but not to see the dawn

the rule has changed much since each child was born
and now it is a task to play each part
but smiling is the hardest sort of art
enough to dream but not to see the dawn