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


Night Page

A comma of moon,

And all the stars are words

Named in a night book.

There you stand, far off,


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