For Paisley and it’s Places

Perhaps upon the River Cart or by its dwindling streams

We feel a heart that’s beating power without another means

A power that turns the waiting tide and waters plants and flowers

Turning students to their books in every waitng hour

A power that lights the morning dawn and dusk a gentle glow

A power that hold each swan intact as waters gently flow

A guiding light which simply “Is” with no demands on man

While preachers loudly scream and shout that all the folk are damned

A power that needs no words nor praise to move within it’s place

For it has the world for man to feel it’s gentle guiding pace

And if by chance an apple tree should spring in Barshaw Park

Or nestling feathers after flight, you see a morning lark

Look upon its shining beak or feathers black and pure

Worship not the image, mind, but the power that it endures

And when the apple tree no more, holds up it’s greenish fruit

Look toward the power in Life for all things absolute

Only the real stands up to time, with majesty and robes

All else disappears from sight, with pain and anxious throws

And so the real in everything is found not in the clay

But in the power of Life itself which opens up the day

Dwell not in things which are not real but look behind the eyes

There you find the real idea of all that Love implies

The Waiting Hour – A Sunset in Paisley

Oh the joy of the waiting hour at sunset, upon the White Cart as she shines her yellow light to say goodnight

Another moon comes and shines on the same river, like two old men, never to meet.

The hours pass and the children play and scream, while the ghosts of the Abbey chants of the night still heard, yet unheard.

The Town Hall clock lends its eyes and chimes the 9th hour,

The young men stumble home from the pub and the old men light up their cigarettes for their walk home.

faded memories of Victorians in shaded statues, casting  long shadows and tales.

Laus Deo – it is done, and higher we are lifted.

 

 

 

A Poem for Paisley

The Threads of Paisley

If all the threads that Paisley made were found again one day

I’d hang them in the sky with Love to take away the grey

Upon the gold I’d write a tale of stories from our past

About the folk we´ve lost in time that’s moved away so fast.

Upon the red I’d see the war and all the men who died

I’d write the names of all their wives whose tears we left behind

Upon the Abbey darkened threads of blackened thoughts and times

A bygone age of killing folk for witchcraft and false crimes.

Threads of blue I’d give to schools, to teach them peace and Love

By leaving parts of history, while rainbows hang above

Upon the green, the Irish woe, migration, war and fear

While London pushes migrants out with hatred causing tears.

Upon the white I’d ask the kids to write their stories clear

To fill the sky with hopes and dreams of music for our ears

Upon this richest tapestry I’d paint a heart and crown

To show the world the triumphs of dear Paisley, my sweet town.