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You are my dream

Of the East

You are my life

In the West

Fused in one

You begin my day

And end each day

With a silent smile

When I die I will

Have only my love

To leave you.

You said I had written

No poems for you

And you had written

Only cheques.

I cannot go on loving

The empty air

No matter how many cheques

That air may bear.

I have a headache

And heartache

Remembering another love

Twenty years ago,

Living and loving and leaving

A city for a cottage

On the moors, the

Hyaline air, the silence

And the distant stars.

I am your poet

Officially or unofficially

You may not know it

But I am.

From the hilly north

I came and sang.

I found myself

At least half-a-swan.

Through all my rage

You see a man

Wanting love.

Through all your calm

I see a woman loving.
View Barry Tebb:  Poems | Biography | Books

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