The grasses blown
Blown on
To thoughts of home
On the water and the wind
Thoughts blown home to you
from The Hebrides - Water and Stone
Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on kindle by clicking the highlighted links
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Monday, 29 April 2013
Sunday, 28 April 2013
We walk with love at hand and in the distance
He paints from memory
We talk from memory
He walks across the machair
We walked across the machair
Out to the still & raging seas
Out to the living, breathing sands
Back in his studio
He lets the canvas carry his load
We let his words enter our thoughts
He works from memory
The depths of his unconscious are ravaged
We listen from memory
The depths of our unconscious are sated
His present mood
Reflects our present mood
In the surface tension of the painting
In the surface tension of our conversation
These will be original works of memory
For as Jac says, we say
He is a professional artist
We are his populations
He is a painter
We are the work that found him
Saturday, 27 April 2013
Young Man
Restless soul
Rips at his cigarette
His thin artist legs
Carried quickly by red plimsolls
As he skips
Across the decking
On to the seaweed strewn rocks
By the slow tide of the water
Friday, 26 April 2013
Rain & sun & rain & sun & rain &...
Blue sky to the heavens
Grey mist to the sea
Black, white crested waves
Rothko through and through
Within our imaginary spirits
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Rain for the refreshment of love
There is a song at the waters edge
There are pebbles on vacant sands
There are swirls where the streams of water head towards the sea
There are people, why wouldn't there be
The beauty of this beach idyll is then all but beaten out of me, by Kate's insistence that we carry on walking in the rain, towards a small dwelling, with four windows and a door
I go along with the daftness for a while, but finally insist on returning to the hotel
Kate walks to my left side, taking shelter from the persistent rain; my right side becomes soddened
At the cross roads we turn right, now we walk directly into the wind, and the slanting rain
Kate takes shelter, she walks, just short of a rainfalls depth, behind me; my front becomes entirely soddened
A calm emerges, clear light ahead
There are songs in my head
There are stones for my feet to kick
There are puddles
Ideal for children like me and Kate to skip and splash in
There are people
Why wouldn't there be
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