The Singer

Where black rocks bare their fangs and roar
and sea shouts angry at the shore;
when rain comes sweeping wet-walled night
and lamps are pools of yellow light,
the singer stirs from out the deep
where phantoms of his memory sleep.

He trudges by the lighted inn
as jest and laughter ring within.
“Blood is the bond,” he thinks, “of brother love,
roots fit others for the glove.
Solo is a finite role,
no mirror for the choirs deep soul.
My lonely strain was not a theme
that bound the past to future dream.
I played my part. I sang it strong
but feel no call for further song.”

He wanders on along his way
where seas shed tears of spume and spray.
Now cries the wind as rain comes down
to draw a curtain o’er the town.
Charlie Gregory
Cardiff