Like swift water, of a river running
along its bank, thoughts rush on,
jogging a memory, like a current
issue of London Fog, rolling in.

Around the shore, within the path, storms come rising up,
like rapid, raging words of still wrath, while under cover
of hemlock trees, sitting upon the fallen log, I etch into it
my thoughts of love, pondered deep in the orchard grass.

Smoke filled dreams cloud the mind's eye,
where upon visions dance blind, hung in the night sky,
and the curtain falls, clapping shut the final act
of 'A Pipe, A Hat and Walking Stick, Down on Baker Street.'

Now tread the waters, calm the sea, and take me on,
wandering, upon the sandy shore of a distant memory,
reminding me of the way things used to be back then,
while in my youth, when life was fancy free, so sweet.

Run the course, stand the warmth of noonday sun,
and face the eastern mountain to see snow melting down
into the flowing water of the rushing, rapid, raging,
river of treacherous, insurmountable love.