05/09/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook pillars

Four pillars, fluted and scrolled, stand now in support
of nothing: in nettles, behind wire. They do not hold
the sky. Nor is there sign of what might have laden;
no twisted rust, nothing. Only in a moment, on the path
when pausing to look at a thistle half blown, do I
wonder what has been taken, and that which remains.

04/09/2016

#sea #photography boy and beach

Boy and Beach


peace:)



#sea #lytham #photography figures at dusk

Figures at Dusk


peace:)

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook bliss

Let bliss be that moment, when footsteps slupper
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.

Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.

#sea #sky #lytham #photography sea and sky - 360

Sea and sky - 360



peace:)




16/08/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting Prodigal

Prodigal

In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.

Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.

Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.

There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.

For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.

10/05/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting the god thing

On days when the shivering chill water;
seen though sap wet spines; glints silver
and puddles out as cascading pennies
at each scudding bounce of flat stone.
When barely whispered clouds hang
peeking from the moor heads, not daring
bleach the sky. And, pert leaves no longer
than a mayfly's wing have left the tree
as yet unformed to mar the view in shadow
in their drooping; open fullness.
In that moment, of breathless new heated air
- perhaps - it is what we feel.