On quiet days When the air is still When the cars aren’t wurring And just the birds are chirping She strolls into my mind Sits down on her well worn arm chair With a porcelain cup of camomile And thoughtfully squints her eyes as she blows on it and drinks As I walk a little heavier, a little slower with the gravity of her love Crunching the pebbles under my feet as I pad along slowly and heavily On quiet days this happens When the air is still She sits and sips and stirs and sits and sips And I fiendishly and quietly look around with my darting searching eyes Around the grass lands and the clear skies and the afternoons sun drenched benches Looking for her, the lady, the princess, the swan, the dove That I’ll never find on any of those things As the birds chirp and the wind is still On the benches drenched in the afternoons sun For she is only always ever sitting right up there in my mind On that comfy well worn arm chair up there So close to me but so impossible to see Squinting thoughtfully as she blows on her tea Sipping and stirring and sitting and stirring and sipping From that porcelain cup There seems to be a lot of quiet days These days