As any man who in our world does long
for art might see in the mirror a man
of parts, I see the muck and mud song
the ageing dying leather bound face and
hands broken, bleeding, calous. My wrong
mindedness is oft too sharp for kind hand.
I know everything and nothing, my brawn
is massive but lame in function. I modern man.
Yet somehow, against all cause, her love
matures, she who can sense that which I refuse
or cannot see. Where I see mud she sees clay.
Where I see a man broken by time and abuse
she sees a heart worthy and true. Every day
as wife, mother and queen of endless grace
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