The Soul to the Clock 2002

Every time I look towards the south,
The beauty which once stood there,
Seems to call out to the sensitive man,
Sketches creative in chalks of colour,
Many more sticky charcoal indications,
Should well impress all that is calm,
Invite me back to your parkland as I reach out,
I except the offer as the river swells in song,
Last night across the river,
With those goings-on and screams of calamity,
The night storms and the wailing from the land,
Will mask those savage brutes and conceal their illicit deals,
That we all have known and seen,
Keeping them away from this civility,
And please create that screen,
Even the ghostly flights of the geese which never scream,
That marketplace,
Its imprint lost and hidden by greed,
Sometimes calls out to a stranger,
Only the ones that know the place and remember,
And the breaks of silence which speak,
Elegant hands of the clockmakers,
A human touch and soul left to fuel the clock,
I know its hidden in the loft,
The warehouse doors shut tight,
With its secret locked up for all the nights.