Silver Coins
A great hope to be gilded and buried by the kids on the coast
We could have helped the guy who was selling the pine needles
But his hands were sticky with sap and he would have covered us too
He really belonged in a book of birds and mythical creatures
The fun stopped when we ran out of silver coins
We stopped looking forward to sundays and started looking for new habits
Hearing traditional music and learning poetry written by Uranian soldiers
The soft voices recorded over the beats of the piano shuffle
We know of the hero who believed in Albion and wrote of summer
Who signed himself out of the army before the war was over
Again you mention a destination and a bridge over a beautiful river
You never learnt to swim, something you are proud of
You have never broken the flat water or been seen drying naked on the shore
Like a daffodil drying after the storm in winter- you maintain these are passing phases
Subjective or factual you could happily argue either point
Everything is worth fighting for in your hot opinion
And what are you most proud of? When were you most bravest?
Why couldn't you speak to the young man who sang
The hero of your verse who stole what you never knew you had
But as the beam of sunlight came down you had a moment of delight
And you realised that mild men will be your medicine
You will keep the secret that will forever be your hidden itch
With only the thought of this first love to scratch it with
Few have tried to search for you since you have left
Few have tried to follow your messages and secret carvings
We know of you but the symbols you left are impossible to decipher
The thieves all sleep with your name written beneath their pillows
The school boys all carve your words in the beams that hold up the bridge
We wonder what became of the baker's apprentice
And we see the shocked expressions when your constellation appears
Your meteors lands in the palms of the young men who hear the song
Your flowers grow amongst the pine needles that have fallen
Do you mind that the Emperor wears your clothes?
Do you mind that the peasants all dance alone in your mirror?
Thin, whispering poetry of an ideal world
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