The Orchestra Played a Love Song

When I was young, I dreamed my dream,
As I turned a handle that made the cream,
While feeding cows, and cackling hens,
Grunting pigs in smelly pens.
I dreamed of you, imagined your face,
The way you would walk with queenly grace.
While in the fields, wheat sheaves to stack.
Long flowing gowns, men dressed in black,
Of concert halls, with kings and queens,
Were all a part of my childhood dreams.

I grew. One unsuspecting day, I saw you,
Walking tall, elegant, and in my heart, I knew.
On my arm, you danced; softly, as a feather falls.
To my mind came visions of concert halls.
Cymbals crashed, the drum roll grew,
The percussionist stood, and it was you.
The maestro turned, baton in hand,
As though the score had all been planned,
The spotlight paused, then moved along,
The orchestra played a love song.

We walk now, where once we ran,
A pause to celebrate where it all began,
A pride in our children; their children too,
Lives we have shared while each of us grew.
The places we've been, the people we've known,
Our love for each other, and what it has grown.
We celebrate the past, but reach out to the new.
Listen my darling, can you hear it too?
The orchestra is playing
a love song for you.

-- gordon william bain, Thursday September 4th, 2008.


.................................

The River of Life

Our River Flows

When it was young

Like us,

It gurgled and laughed,

As the world rushed past,

Like us,

Unafraid of the twists

And the hairpin turns

Daring the cliffs,

And the diving terns.

Like us.

Now the water widens

The current slows,

We cannot see

Where the water goes.

The little boat

In which we travel,

Has scraped the bottom

And hit the gravel.

Here we stand,

Just you and I,

Alone in the river

With a threatening sky.

I marvel your smile

And love of life,

Another year has passed.

Dear love, my wife.


-- gordon william bain, August 2nd, 2008

The Gift of Sight

Ever wonder
how it would be
To never see the sun,
To see each day
as one long stretch
Which never quite begun.

To have two eyes
that didn't work,
The way we see it done
We who have
our sight and see
The wonder of the sun.

I watched a man
and his loyal dog
Approach a street one day
I wondered what
it would be like
If a dog told me to "stay.".

He shuffled by,
His dog in hand,
Quite cheerful it seemed to me,
I wondered
about the way I'd feel
If it was me that couldn't see.

So many things in life
we think,
Are ours by Godly right,
Surely the most precious
of all I think
Is the gift of having sight.

Gordon Bain
March/04
...........................

Anniversary Song

It is September.

Stillness surrounds

The morning.

You sleep late,

I hear you breathe.

Tourists have gone.

The young and young at heart,

Are now in school.

A sound,

Footsteps in the hall,

Your smile appears,

As it always has,

Across the years.

I turn to you,

Beautiful still

That honest pleasure,

You radiate,

Explodes,

Your priceless smile,

The bomb

That blows away

My doubt,

and fears.

“Happy Anniversary,”

You say,

And I reply,

In kind;

One more time.

Though age,

Stalks us,

Our anniversary

Remains sublime,

We tip toe past our friend,

Who sleeps, or does she read?

We hug,

And talk about our day,

Our children,

Gilbert and Anne,

Thoughts of winter,

Our hopes,

For the moving plan..

Fifty eight years,

Have come and gone,

In my head I hear,

Sinatra's Song.

I lose myself

in the sound,

And follow the lyrics,

Line by line...

............................................................


“Oh, it's a long while from May to December,

But the days grow short when you reach September,

When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame,

One hasn't got time for the waiting game.




Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few,

September, November,

And these few precious days, I'll spend with you.

These precious days I'll spend with you..

.................................................................................

-- gwb

My Valentine

There was this close encounter with death,
On the road through a trillion trees.
A frigid cold like none on earth,
The two of us in a place where all things freeze.

One moment was all it took to feel,
The crush of eighteen tires.
God's hand reached down and found us,
Among the metal, glass, and wires.

In New Brunswick, the wind and snow still blows.
From the mountains come frozen air.
Brave travellers pass the snow filled ditch,
No sign that we were there.

On this day when lovers proclaim in verse,
Their love to sweetheart or wife.
I raise a brandy and toast our love,
My darling, you saved my life.

You smile and love is there,
And here, inside my heart.
You are my soul, and so it is
From day to day, throughout my space and time,
You are my valentine.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
February, 2005.

A Stake of Gold

I crouched in the door of The Last Drop Cafe,
When out of the freezing cold,
Came a man of strength, who took my arm,
And spoke of finding gold.

'Come', he said, 'Stand tall my friend.
Look north with eyes that see.
If it is only the past you live,
Then the future can never be.

You can die as quick on a southern beach,
As under a frozen tree.
It isn't the beach that warms the soul,
It's God's love for you and me.'

I looked in his face as he spoke my name,
I felt warmth instead of cold.
By looking at things in a different way,
I found my stake of gold.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
February, 2002.

The Aging Old Birch

From out of the blue two swallows came flying,
Their songs were of mating as winter lay dying.
From below, the old birch, white arms blunt and old,
Reached out with promise of protection from the cold.

A colourless bird house with small wooden perch,
Clung to the bark of the majestic old birch.
The swallows cavorted in the sky overhead,
Then flew to the birch as winter lay dead.

The kindly old tree spread its leaves with a sigh,
A battered old soldier, yet not time to die.
New life in the birdhouse, sounds shrill and new.
The old birch stood guard as the young swallows grew.

One day the parents climbed high in the blue,
Chasing a feather as tree swallows do,
Then away flew the fledglings, without a goodbye.
Last vestige of youth, time now to die.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
October, 2003.