The old grand house

But there are slower more certain changes taking place unnoticed
Behind the froth of events and dramas of the storms and deluges.
It is odd how forgotten overgrown tracks reappear in the new world
That has been revealed by the pummelling heavy waters.

Washing away clear all that has lost its firm grip upon the Earth.
This old track you now enter upon takes you right back to when
There was a bright summer day, strolling before the grand house by the river
Admiring the newness and fineness of the Earth's promise and of our own bodies.

Passage of two hearts

So began their journeys across the planet's surface,
Taken away she was, because he did not know her purpose
In risking her beauty amid the globe's trials,
Many - most - still find savagery in their travel miles.

She was journeying with a friend to far forsaken lands
Expecting to find a little correspondence from some man's
Reply to her seeking, he recognised at the start
She held great surety of love that could last.

Away she went in a multitude of heavenly signs
Would he believe now his heart could choose entwine
Itself with woman and find the pleasing murmurs
Of confidence, gaiety, the goodness love alone harbours?

For uncomprehending man still believing it easy
To gain the whole of love came a sudden sleazy
Run of luck, to buckle his heart on a stronger steed
It was necessary to suffer, then be given god speed.

At last his mission was begun, when the heat had run
From her warm hearth, time judged when the sun
Had sunk to low position in the sky then they could try
The meeting in the spaces, away from prying eyes.

There is no finish to this heaven spun story
Enough to say he risked cold and hunger for glory
While she stopped, thought and away thundered.
What became of her? He often wondered.

Kathmandu
From Postbook from around the World

It's your life

You re-entering her land of silent hopes
Through vast lofty tunnels let the mind race.
Ice hangs from the hungry roof like ropes,
Stones jut and jar, that coldness you taste.
The light is orange eerie, your eyes lope
Towards the end of this entrance, your breath abates.

You are ascending among mountains of nodding roads.
Yes, this is the way. See the snow splattered stones
The cold dark valleys, dimly green blue, no reds
To lighten this crystal land, the earth shines with its bones
Those great soaring structures, occasionally water's shed
From above to below, seized by cold it groans.

You may see in the frozen water of the falls
The stunning grip her land has. Beauty revealed
To be the sternest judge, when she calls
Tear through the tunnels and valleys of water congealed
To the only warmth on the earth, your heart appals
If you cannot now receive the love she's sealed.

Murder

Climb up to a view of distant Himalayan peaks.
Children, happy dream children, show you the long way up
Could be yours if, once offered, you took the loving cup.
Thoughts of educated persons are of war - killing reeks.

This night a decent man has been struck down from the back.
Once, twice, under a full moon a killer sliced the man's flesh.
Men ran in horror seeing murder again afresh.
Sick minds spew out their brew from an undistinguished pack

We were involved in this taking of life with stealth.
A hungry man is allowed to dwell for years with death
You know the torture, see his face has the scars of life's theft.
In a moment he struck back. By killing wishing for life's wealth.

Happiest day of the year

All can be done with a smile, a helping gesture without wile
So where is the need for the earnest arguing we espouse
Early on our path to home when so very much is unknown?
We can only grow to be what we have long known.

Silver trickling veins of moonlight on the water, yesterday slaughter.
Resigned the animals came to be hideously slain
This night is burning the last remains of her who dreamt of the world's domain
Watching her go to quick extinction are three women with no outward distinction.

It is the happiest day of the year when what we most fear
Should be dug up, examined and carefully placed in its place.
Does a baby conceived when its mother was venerally diseased
Have any risk to face? No, if the cure is effected soon it leaves no trace.

Does the woman burning lose what she has loved? It was her earning.
No, not in vain did she come and go, three silent witnesses in night
Wish her well or whatever the phrase and in the moon's silver haze
The deep problems of life and death are solved by walked onwards.

Kathmandu
From Postbook from around the World

The summer of 1944

In the big city the people had mostly fled the vengeance
Weapon of destruction that fell with a thud out of the clear sky.
In Gloucestershire among the Cotswold hills there was less danger,
More a general concern for the coming peace and how it would be.

For those sent off to fight and to perhaps die there had to be
A feeling that all would be changed and rewritten in the new world
The brave new world struggling to come into being.
Working with a common will the people came together in high hopes.

Majestic white clouds were traversed by flying machines from the great harvest fields of America
Bringing the war to a terrible fury of destruction on an unimagined scale.
And as the summer of 1944 came to its close, the people returned to the cities
Sure that the end of this long hard war was now in sight. Precious peace nearly won.

Aerobatics

Morning glory

In the gardens behind the stately black railings
The trees fall back progressively into the distant sky
Hinting at the natural world lying beyond these shores
Where infinite variety and greater understanding await the traveller.

Time tunnel

Ushered into a recreation of the war years
The visitors stop and stare at threadbare
Garments, ordinary snacks comprise the fare
Of luxury living, everything reduced to the bare essentials.

Newspaper advertisements proclaim the children
Born of this conflict will never be browbeat
The sunny uplands of tomorrow know no defeat.
A headless body at the exit of the exhibition announces the cost.

A strangely familiar full moon

Home upon a planet that looks out across skies
Dotted with suns and stars all once known.
There is comfort in seeing the full Moon exactly
Where it has always been far off to the South.

Pointing in a westerly direction is the new Moon crescent
The old ways are ever retrod, landing places beckon
Where you once stepped under the canopy of heaven.
It is all strangely familiar, as though you have come home.

At the new Globe

The spirit of adventure permeated the wharfs
Ships sailed out over seas around the world
The theatre recreated on its rounded wooden stage
All the dramas and conceits of an age grown hugely proud.

On return to Stratford and its stately Avon swans
The hedgerows still waved their floral tributes
Banks of wild thyme grew yet more profuse
But the death of a son left a mark that would not heal.

At the old Globe girls flit between rooms like moths
Alighting on their latest fancy, fluttering their finery
Surging feelings demand to be explored and expressed
Life burns more brightly when once nearly extinguished.

Your final journey

Outside my old home the crowds gather in a line
To watch your final journey out towards the West
Along lines of houses and shops festive with flags.
Red white and blue for true British grit and gumption.

The sweep into view of your car at Wellington's victory square
Is sudden and shocking. A great gathering of soldiers, guns dipped,
Give the last salute for the warrior Queen Empress,
Who presided over another victory against the odds. Your final tribute.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches
The funeral of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, 2001

Three magpies

Some forty days and nights spent
In its construction. Built strong to last.
Here you are hopping about the fir tree's branches
As if it were the most solid thing in the world.

Down on the green grass are insects to catch.
The sky looks inviting enough
To want to fly away into the blue yonder.
What a call has freedom upon your wings.

Revelation at the full Moon

This hidden gem is revealed only in moonlight
Chattering quietly the yachtsmen pass the night
By the quay with a solitary flame for company
Unaware that high on the hill the man watches.

On the morrow after the revelation comes a return visit.
In the bright light of day the cove is welcoming.
Old secrets are kept till a time when the Moon
Calls forth to the Earth to reveal all of her glory.

The calling of the birds

On the old ridgeway, the track from Kingston
Has led here down the long years, past
My school you sent me to after coaching,
Past the house of the poet Robert Graves,
Past the pubs we entered at the dawn of adulthood
And where you too came to sup one Christmas
Cheering the passing of another of your long years
Ready to go on and anticipate fresh spring growth.

A voice ringing across the centuries of worship
Recites the rosary and implores Our Lady
To pray for us at the hour of our death.
People file past the coffin touching the plain wood
In respect for one who has departed from their midst
After some 70 years among these hallowed walls.
The organ swells with pride as the final hymn reverberates
Ave Maria. Ave, Ave, Ave Maria. It is simply time to go.

The pause of night allows no rest or peace.
An ancient house at the edge of the known world
Hangs over us all reminding of former times and glories
When in the first flush of summer the ripe bud
Of a girl entrances and delights at the entrance to life.
Laid bare and open on the earth among the bracken
A fly buzzes around her liquid sap and startles
With knowledge of her smouldering animal attraction.

Just now the lake is frozen, the Earth white with snow
Only the distant yellow sun rising over the bare trees
Announces how life will one day return to this place
At the edge of the known world. The distant
Calling of the birds calls me back to the lake
Where in youth it shimmered with the scent of life.
Each talking bird carries its message from other worlds
A robin in the garden trills its notes of joy and peace.
And you are gone.

Leaving for a far shore

The souls aboard this barque setting out
To rendezvous with the weighting of fate
Can rest assured the time of their going
Has long been known to the rulers designate.

The lights on board tantalise like stars
Shining brightly across the dark mysterious sea
Caught in the darkness, majestically marking the progress
Of the royal ship heading south towards infinity.

The cycle reaches completion

The last letter from your mother advising
God is good as you lay dying
Seeking some consolation in a mysterious world
Bereft of reason and charged with meaning.

At the conclusion of the cycle the moon
And the tides swim back into place
With a final sigh the waves expire on the shore
And fall back into the wash to be reborn.

Welcome back traveller

Flying Visit

In the ancient forest rain drums against dried parchment leaves
Creating a gentle symphony but there is nothing harmonious
In this man's flight across the open land waiting for respite
He believes the Earth will persevere in spite of all the depredation.

Staying low near the ground to avoid potential attack
He heads towards the airport and his jet to depart these shores
Wondering if he has created the air of a conqueror for viewers
Back home who are waiting for liberation from their fears

Lord Jim of the islands

Back then in the early days of dances and escorting girls home
You could hardly have dreamt you were setting out on a lifetime quest
Seeking out consolation in the heavenly lush thighs of the night
Not really too bothered about much else in life besides.

We can only guess at where you have gone, meeting again
After some thirty years a former companion who watched death
Visit a husband, we did but wonder at the chances that decide
Who shall survive and who shall not live a long and fulfilling life.

Searching but not finding, wandering but not stopping, the condition
Is one of knowing that somewhere, somehow, fulfillment awaits, beckons.
A garden of beautiful colour, like those glittering irridescent fish seen on a trip
Reminds of the unspoken glories waiting for the finally weary soul.

A summons to the Kumbha Mela

The summons is especially sent to those who dwell
In forests, remote groves and mountain fastnesses.
Those who have faithfully maintained the old ways
Refused all compromise in pursuit of the truth
Clad only in in ashes and daubs of paint. Behold the Nagas.

The people will be blessed to simply see these wanderers
Who have learnt how to endure heat and cold
Thirst and hunger, all without a single concession
To altering their ways, their faith in the bounty of the Earth
Is complete and a lesson to us all who come after

Seeing these magnificent examples of what man can be
Will encourage the others among us who wonder
What they should do to seek out liberation
From the trials of life. Beyond the spheres
Turn in their orbits as they should, as should we.

And at the great washing away of past errors and doubts,
On the most auspicious bathing day, our spirit is renewed.
We will return to the places from whence we came
Until once more the tribes come together
At Hardwar in the Himalayas by the mother Ganga

Riding out the blast of winter

Incredible how contemplating a journey to far off places
Where the tribes are coming together, as they have
Over the endless passage of the planets about the Sun,
It seems the most natural thing in the world to re-enter
That sought after state of celebration.

Strange how on leaving behind the ancient hawthorn
Hidden in the woods, its eerie beauty forces a catch
In the breath at realising how long it has prospered here
Away out of sight from all those who looked but could not see.
How benign is the natural world.

Birthday morning

A flock of sea gulls hover over the sodden ground
Foretelling of high winds to come
Leaves begin to fall in yellowed readiness

There is peace and content on the land
It is always there beneath the surface
But more easily discerned on a birthday morning.

The line to Banbury

Another meeting with the Rolling Stones, pictures in my head
From the first meeting still as clear. The railway line outside leads
To Banbury through the heart of the country. The milk train
At the dead of night trundles slowly to its destination in the Midlands,
Passing by scenes of your first triumphs and promise, much promise.
When all is counted and weighed in the scales it becomes sure
We have been sleeping on the edge of a great ravine
Where one false move will claim the unwary. Death comes unannounced.
A rocket heads towards the heavens and explodes into stars.

At the Cenotaph

Reciting the words of the Lord's prayer aloud
He sounds in his rasping retching voice a prophet
Who has seen the worst that man can wreak
Upon his foe and now he asks forgiveness
After all those long lonely years of silence.

The road back to Blighty from the other side
Takes you past the native trees waving in glory
Striding upwards towards the blue vaulted sky
And nothing is not in place, or even slightly wrong
When finally you come to bid your last farewell.

Spring comes to Horse Close Wood

Where the Pope once landed in these fields
A new onrush of growth and renewal
Occurs as he leaves the planet home
He knew so well.

The murmuring of the stream's waters
Heading irresistibly towards the far off sea
Foretells how all creation obeys the laws
Written from the beginning.

The felled tree

A splash of yellow in the burgeoning green leaves of spring
Announces the beginning of a new season of growth and plenty.
Amid the cleared spaces in old Horse Close Wood fresh plants
Poke their heads above the soil and thrive in the heady sun.

The Essex tree cutters

On return to your village in the Essex of old
Tree cutters are preparing to welcome the spring
By hacking back the dead wood, new life
Demands every chance to thrive and sing.

An ancient pub with a rickety roof and stream
In the yard welcomes wayfarers treading
The back roads in search of sustenance and comfort
Who are unsure of what it is they are needing.

Far off in London town a tumult of activity
Announces the coming year will be filled
With drama and excitement but it is the steady pace
Of nature's growth that leaves us most thrilled.

The family line

The light in there reveals a wooden door
It opens out to double the room's size.
When visitors come to celebrate the end
Of one year and beginning of the next.
Sixty years dissolve away.

The giant fir tree with its harvest of cones
Stands firm above the house with its water butt.
Fruit trees and reminders of old England fade back
Into a past where civility is mightily valued.
Books contain treasured memory.

The family tree is being extended and widened
Probing into corners often forgotten but still there
Connecting us to the present and the future to be.
Out of these roots much growth will come.
Fierce storms pass in the night.

The old piano still graces the corner of the room.
A long line of street entertainers found expression
Among the alleyways and theatres of Covent Garden
Swirling with life, with merry profusion, with colour.
Early morning arrives crisp and clear.

After the tsunami

Whispers of Merton Abbey

It has come to this, last vestiges of a glory
The huge abbey, and splendid grounds swelled
With the endowments of generations. Houses stretch
To the hill over former fields and their lost story.

Once a boy studied here who was to become a pope
Carrying to Rome the principles and lessons he learned,
To his royal English lord he granted dominion of Ireland
Yet it was the best of times for the poor who could not cope.

At the coronation of Henry the Sixth, great celebration
In an abbey grown magnificent, a feast for the eye,
Where now rain lashes down on grey pylons and stores,
A broken Norman arch mere token of a former great nation.

The sacred turns to the profane, the people all lost
Among the rushing currents driving the corn mill.
Only the earth rejoices at the continuing flow
Of the waters, alive, never having to count the cost.

Grosvenor Square 1968

My hair tingled
The crowd felt a happy mood
As they followed red banners
Out of the square
And chanted.

I was present at an unwilling
Revolution.
Beneath our comforting smiles
We felt a hunger.
Babies and beautiful girls
Sat on men's shoulders
The march of the people
Funnelled through Charing Cross Road.

Very serious, older faces
Looked down from shabby rooms
At this tide of fresh feeling
Swept almost eagerly along
Streets
Where family cars trickled
In a familiar direction.
'Mustn't be late for tea, lad,'
Half jokes the young man
Beside me.

The police have barricaded
Grosvenor Square.
Of course.
We knew today
Was different.
See now that the battle
In Vietnam
goes on in England too.

We are all jammed up Must move forward
Into the green gardens
Of Grosvenor Square .
Horses charge
We link arms
Slowly get heaved back
By waves of police
Some half wondering
For what they fight.

A policeman falls down
By us forming a scrum to hold off the crowd
He is rescued.
His superior gives me an appraising look.
They keep driving us back
A policeman grabs me
By the throat.
I am not surprised.
To be free
Brings terrible responsibilities
He lets go.

Violence mixed with jokes
Beneath minds toy with
Freedom.
A new generation drags its feet
Before the onslaught
Of the police
< And police horses.
But our feet today
Have marched.
We are young
Our step is live.
And now we have felt that life
We will be free.

Grosvenor Square, March 17 1968

Return

Twenty five
Twenty four
Twenty three
counting down
to touchdown.

The bleeps bleep
out of open windows
through the warm summer evening
- bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep -
man's voice
is coming frm the other side of the moon.

Stop still!

- bleep bleep bleep -

the whole world frozen still
by a voice from outer space.
- gone outside of ourselves!
- bleep bleep -
from outer space
across infinite miles
man's voice calls
- bleep bleep -
'Eagle has landed'
on the satellite of planet Earth
part of the solar system of star sun
in a nebula
in a constellation of nebulae
within one world
after more worlds

. Still is this road
activity is ceaselessly repeating
into frozen still worlds
of bodies of nebulae
connected by unseen space
sounding outside.

- bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep -

alone on the edge of an ink universe
man's voice calls.

Before
touchdown
he is in command.

After
setdown
rooted in relativity
on the Sea of Tranquility
alarmed for time and place
outside in space
he calls
from the far side of the new crescent moon
amid the clouds of sunset
wispy white.
On the edge of space
he freezes life
to the pattern of
eternal existence.

- Bleep bleep bleep bleep -

Pulsing
stars
constellations
galaxies
vast conglomerations
within configurations
bursting nowhere
inwards
outwards

-bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep
bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep -

You haven't realised
you didn't know

on with the show
begin at the beginning
The stars are the ending
returning
backwards
towards
infinite light white bright sight
might be soon
on the moon
from there to where?

- bleep bleep bleep -

part of us

The moon returns to where it was
in other orders
before the beginning
return to the ending
stepping forwards
to enter back
to previous existence
existing all the while
man takes his first timid step
after feeling giddy on coming back
into the reality of .......

- bleep bleep bleep bleep - bleep bleep bleep bleep - bleep bleep bleep bleep.....

the eternal sleep.

Moon landing, July 20, 1969.

The Long Road to Paris

Autumn turning to winter turning to spring

My return journey from the German border took me through the night as I had to drive along the autobahn till 3am to find a motel with any rooms, and then on to a glorious autumnal morning in Nancy. Here, high above the proud town that was once the capital for the Dukes of Lorraine, I went looking for the old farm labourer's cottage in the lane leading from the village. But 15 Rue de la Tarrere no longer exists. Indeed, that beautiful garden with its quilt of blue and white spring flowers no longer exists, it has been buried by a bulldozer building a road up to the village from the town. Even through the cottage had no bath, it had romance. The romance of watching a young woman washing at the sink, her upright well-rounded breasts gently bobbing all the while. And that poster from faraway Paris nightspots declaring ' Nous sommes toujours sexy'.

Romance remains in the lane, as it leads down to the croissanterie in the village of Laxou past intermittent fields, nestling houses and a tree with its freshly rained-upon leaves glowing rich flamingo pink-red. The changing seasons. How different from last time when snow fell on the first, very first, day of spring.

The road leads straight and long to Paris past wide open hills and stands of trees variegated with all the soft turning colours of autumn. The waitress in the wayside cafe has brilliant blue eyes, golden red hair and is aware of her soft beauty as she decorously bends down to sweep the floor, revealing white breasts with a hint of pink tenderness.

But Paris is the lure, the irresistible compulsion that exerts its pull on you well before the underpopulated countryside gives way to city suburbs. The frequent government attempts to reward motherhood in France have to compete against a thousand other temptations.

Lost in the labyrinth searching for the jazz club that always lies in the next street, the next arondisement, while a fight breaks out in a narrow alley off the Rue Saint Dennis patrolled by glamorous ladies of the night serious and matter of fact in their negotiations with potential clients. The Sunset Club, Rue des Lombards, just in time for the last number. The girl behind the bar is a smiling paragon of efficiency, dispensing a glass of lager for five Euros. She needs to be. On to a wine bar where long legged bar girls have all the allure of that barmaid from the Moulin Rouge., French women return your gaze and add to it, sure they are in command in this most feminine of all cities.

Art is the city's countryside, its inspiration, its philosophy among the beautiful constructions and statements of past and previous generations of French lovers. The prompting is to soar and surpass all that has gone before.

The art gallery is empty on this early Saturday morning, it stands like a church waiting for its worshippers, uniformed attendants watch out for any sign of desecration. The exhibition is a retrospective of the art of Fritz Winter, a German who Paris has taken into her ample bosom. He lived through the worst the century had to offer. Saw service on the Russian front, having been sought out even in his remote Bavarian village where he attempted to create his art away from Hitler's bully boys systematically eliminating all opposition among the stunned population.

The exhibition begins with dancing colours that have an intensity at their centre and then radiate outwards into ever more subtle refinements, the whole held together by bold strong forms. One circling of the gallery opens up a dance of light and shade, colour and life.

Hidden away behind some glassare three small notebooks. They offer quiet testimony of the primeval abyss. The period they cover in their few pages is 1940-1944, and the pictures they contain are all created in black, grey and white. '1942, Destruction', says the simple title. Everything collapses and dissolves into shades of black and grey, you sense the seismic contortions that the mind has tried to comprehend, the chaos, there are no people at these depths. Down in the bottom layes of the earth's early swamps, subsumed and consummated, future forms are born and ooze into life far from the view of man. It is the sight Fritz Winter has witnessed as the Russian winter settles the war by freezing the great German army as it stands outside Stalingrad. The record goes completely bland for four years after Fritz Winter, badly wounded, is captured and sent to a Russian prisoner of war camp in Siberia, only to emerge in 1948.

A red sun dances above an irridescent grey-pink backdrop filled with praeternatural light. Two elegant curving shapes, are they early trees? reach upwards towards the warmth of the sun. It is the springtime of the world. The man has survived and been reborn, it is 1949, the spirit has triumphed in spite of all. Here is eloquent testimony of one soul who has won through in a tumultuous century.

Paris

Supporters of Tibet

Your last New Year

By the waterfall the water rushes noisily
To the sea and beyond, there is no time
To stop and wonder, all must now join in the race
Unsure of where the hurtling current eventually leads.

In memory of my brother, Shaun Kevin Ryan, 1946-2010

Visitor from afar

It is as if a visitor from another world
Carries knowledge of the course of history
The great insect prepares to land
From what distant galaxy has it whirled?

The nations gather at their meeting place
The rituals are observed down to the last detail
An announcement will be duly promulgated
The new world order stares us in the face.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches
President Barack Obama visits London, 2009

Signs of the coming spring

Summer is icumen in

Lambs frolic the Sussex hills
Calves seek out their doting mothers
In the woods the bluebells have come and gone
The heady winds of summer blow.

Swifts from Africa dart the skies
Owls hoot, the last cuckoos coo
The beating surf calls for celebration
Honour the young and make a feast.

These are the heady days
Summer is icumen in.

Wide eyed boy

Past the closed border post
Consigned to history only yesterday
Past the miles of barbed wire
And the lookout post in the woods
Towering over the littered line
Of broken down Trabants which got no further.

In dark streets occasional shops
Where a young woman presses against the glass
To feel the glow of the goods inside
As though waiting for the attentions of a lover.

The wary eyed young seek in vain
For privacy hand in hand against
The lurking demons of the narrow alleyways
Who see everything, know everything.

But the brightly lit hotels offer no room
The road into the winding countryside
Is unlit, I see a sign diverting me
To a lonely country spot where
A red light waves above a triangular cross.

The train with its wagons clatters past
Almost soundless in this place where Goethe
Once strode the world like a colossus
But the past is alive still tonight
For the train heads slowly for the towering
Gates of Buchenwald.

All those old ghosts wander the country lanes
Seeing no freedom, it will take more time
To heal the wounds, the flower seller
Outside the station in town stands
At the corner noting who comes and goes
To the grand hotel, out in the night
Alone and all seeing, no customers in sight.

The generals

The celebrations go on most the day
Not like the hospital waiting room in Dorking.
He looked like a road crash victim
Two pink stubs left of legs sticking out straight
As he sat in a wheelchair surrounded by the old dears
Anxious to get seen, pushing their way ahead in the queque
That is his life too now, waiting around to be seen
'You know there's a military rehab place down that way,'
the smart one says, 'That's it, Afghanistan, the generals.'

Flight of the swans

The drone of your drum hints at the wide open spaces of the interior
Hot and dusty, alert and alive, calling across the long forgotten landscape
The great ocean road harbours the surfers far out at sea on the breakers
There is room here to grow and thrive, this you know and indeed love

On your return we will have the chance to compare notes about what has passed
When you have touched and exchanged the inner essence, then the rest is as a dream
Filling in the time and spaces till we come again to exchange that knowing look
In an instant your spirit leaps across the miles and touches with a charge of life.

Sleepless night

The wide open spaces are upon your face
Gazing back with a mannered grace
Probing and questioning there is no telling
Where this goes next with hearts swelling.