Chris Firth

The Winding Way
 

When I searched for you
All I found was shadow
Shifting around my feet;
 You were not even gossamer
 When I needed concrete.
 
When I rushed to you
You moved further away
As if playing a game;
 You stood in the distance
 Teasing out my name.
 
I took the winding path
Through scrubland wilderness
And you were always elsewhere
 High up in the mountains
 Or down in the city square.
 
When I hid from myself
I found you'd made a home
In the bolt-hole of my heart;
 You'd led me on the winding way
 Right here to the start.
 
There is no point in running now
You are always too fast,
Just ahead of the wind.
 
There is no point in running now
We always arrive
Just when we would have
Anyhow.

Night Page
 

A comma of moon,
And all the stars are words
Named in a night book.
 
There you stand, far off,
Aloof
Like an estranged friend.
 
I don't even search for your face
In all this anymore
It's hard to believe a God.
 
When parents betray us
And leave us frozen young
It's hard to believe a God.
 
In strong families
Faith takes root deepest;
The tallest trees
Grow best in forests.
 
For us
It's as though the map is there
But not the country.
The night book is open
But all the words have slipped away as stars.
A gentle rain falls
But there are no ripples upon the lake.

Chris Firth © 2008

The Tower

 
Even when I had pure love
I yearned for purer;
I could not drink
Enough of wine.
 
Like a thirsty fool on his raft
On a flooded river
I dipped my cup in too deep,
And so it ran over.
 
Like a frantic new city
I built my towers higher
And higher,
Believing that I could crowd
Everything right inside me.
Not even daylight
Could reach my teeming streets.
 
When the stars were out
 I worshiped the sun;
When the sun was up
I crowed for the moon;
When she came
I saw that her face was all glamour,
A mesmeric mirror,
A cold stone clock.
Not good enough!
Not good enough!
 
For years I twittered on,
Missing your gift
As the birds all around me
Sang simply
Of dawn.

Chris Firth © 2008