In Your Eyes.

My fingers do the touching, writing my poetry,

Each word I write I touch I feel just like the blind reading Braille

I go over each word lovingly,

Like the blind person touching, feeling each word he's reading.!

On his face, it shows the vision within,

Although he's blind he can see the colours.

Vision-sly Ingrained in his mind, he can see,

Colours his imagination so attuned he's he.

In the midnight by the moonlight bellow that hill,

Where the firelight was dancing high and I mesmerised leaped sky high

Dancing in the flames like a fairy playing a game, the beautiful flames

Bellow that hill those flowers, forbidden to touch,

I picked a bunch, from the enchanted jungle, so high.

By the river side, I took my time to bathe, to soak my weary body

In all innocence, by the river bed.

Covered in dust by the long road 

Got on the bus with my words, 

Broken French and Spanish words,

Always travel with my book of words,

I seem to go far, far from you. Or am I!

At that mountain high, the rain came tumbling by

And I soaked wet took shelter at the first house I came by 

Ah the welcoming scent of that coffee 

So kind of him walking through the meadows,

On a different road where I may stay, just a little while.

Taking a gamble on the southern downs,

I can feel the dew as I walk across the river seeing you 

As I bathe I can feel fingers writing all over me,

With a little madness, poetry shedding of tears

My senses, my senses. 
It all started all over again...

                                   By Connie James