Low Winter Sun

Low Winter Sun

Everybody’s out to make a bit of money.
We’ve all got to live.
There is no doubt when I first came to this city,
I planned to live simple
on milk, bread and honey.
But when winter comes,
you got to buy an overcoat,
and pairs of thick socks.
The seasons go slow.
You cannot speed them up
by not attending to the clocks.

Don’t want to fail you.
Don’t want to sail you down river.
You knew it was me,
I knew it was you.
We had to be.
That part of it is true.
Now we must see
what life to us will do.

Sat on my piano stool,
I’ve used every tool in my box
to try to unkey these rusted locks,
to see the ships leaving from the docks.
Always end up playing some trad jazz or blues.
My wardrobe almost empty,
no new suits hung up,
no lines of polished shoes.
Never made it big but no one has a dig.
They know few make it to the top,
and they had dreams of their own,
and they lived beyond  the time
when they knew they had to stop.

Yellow canary in a silver wire cage,
beak and feathers dusty,
I remember by a window.
Low winter sun gave no heat.
Pulled back to the past,
I get weary.
Nothing left to follow but my shadow.



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