A Thousand-Different-Ways Poem by Mark Heathcote

I'll tread these hills a thousand-different-ways
And catalogue every river and climb every mountain
I'll turn every boulder and cross every crossroad
A little bit happier now I'm finding my way.

I'll stop and talk to the gipsy woman and buy her heather.
I won't tread any more fearful than if you entered the room
And the whole of nature held its jealous breath
I'll wash down my throat with water and bread
And thank the lord that I'm going to your bed.

I'll burrow down with my beautiful
My, how beautifully blessed are my eyes
they've never-seen-better days
my, my cup is flowing overflowing
because there's an angel at my table
and, she doesn't-bark,
she just-sings-like some heavenly skylark.

I'll enter the dark because there's an ember spark
and I'll map every acre of god's creation for you
just to see those fireflies in your eyes looking back at me.

I'll swim every river, lake and sea
I'll cross every desert before I pass away
and know I've been saved, and I'm second-sighted
and 'prophetic thunder' he can only wonder
what I've done to deserve a woman like you.