No Sunshine.

[tectak]

Tom,

I only noted the pattern as it is obvious for the first part then disappears. Had there been none consistently there I would have passed over. Yes, I can related to looking back over past and not having the foggiest. I just never let on that I don't know

Would have liked to have been at the concert. The last concert of note I went to was Dylan and Paul Simon, well really Dylan. I could have just put on the record/cd of PS and got the same effect. Don't really like being in large crowds lately so no concerts for me. No great loss I think. It was always better backstage. " cloying clay" eh? Can clay cloy?  

dale

clay point noted. Aliteration overload methinks. I still like the feeling of lying face down beneath a living green canopy, in a quiet place and smelling the earth. It is therapy of the most atavistic kind.
See "Smile you smile" from "Brown eyed Girl". I think this was the trigger.
Best,
Tom

---

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar
but birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in places where her footfall hushed, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through root and loam below;
like dampness dream-breaks,why? You never know.
I heard a pulsing heart I thought was mine, but seemed too grand;
much louder than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears like beating drums made out of hay;
while music played a bitter symphony.

No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.


Original

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through cloying clay below;
damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know.
I heard a pulsing heart that was mine but seemed too grand;
it was loud and sounded closer than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears and beat drums made out of hay
and this was how the music played, a bitter symphony.
No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.