oil on panel,  24in. x 12in.  ±60.9cm. x 39.5cm.












The trees are leaned by the weight of wind

The tall grass wet, with rain, in the gold grey dawn

The bridge you cross is the life you've dreamed

Cross the moss-lade pond, the cobblestone lane,

                                                            the leaf you've seen

The faults of war verse the bells of peace

The rise and fall that called you near

To these arms of brick and stone and storied years

To the breeze of Bruges - to a lust for life that reappears

Your pilgrim feet limbs - they trekked and longed and reached for here

To aid these streets despite your fears

Mending the wrongs of centuries lost, of centuries sewn

And the cold slow wounds of children less dear


Your family, your friends, your kin ones afar

“Come back, come home,” they plead and implore

You answer to them, through a whispering door

“I cannot.  I will not.  I'm needed here more.”

Yet the truth of it all remains unsaid

You love this town, its sway, these fable tree grounds

You love its shore, its swans, its carriage-horse sounds

You need her more than words less lived

You need this wind, this grass, this grey rained bridge

You need these trees, time-leaned

In your life, in your skin

For your heart to give