The winding river winds
Winds away from the bridge
Where the winding water flows
Slow days
Have gone by so slowly
As we try to reach out
Reach out for our destination
Sunday, 14 December 2014
Saturday, 13 December 2014
Detour
Waterlogged cotton blossom
Bogged down
Off the beaten track
So only a perception
Of your reflection
Is in another’s mid-day sun
Friday, 12 December 2014
Art Gallery Café
It is a wonderful world, here, today, with the young boy halfway to sleeping
Rocked, in his mothers arms; her smile also, for certain disarms me
Yet I could not look too close at the thalidomide victim
My prejudices, or fears, or weakness
They all remain too self-certain
Thursday, 11 December 2014
Karl and Christine Chilcott
The cotton in the bog, another photograph opportunity
What haste has forced me to abandon my abandon
Instead we pressed onwards, to Cill Rialaig
Where the real artists offer to display their real craft
None which moves me so much as the sculptor in nature
Whose pebble-chess-pieces, and the like
Were photographed by his daughter
Their Last Stop project caught all and more
Much more than I might have captured
From the cotton in the bog
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
Tellers of Tales
Almost without waking, yet still without dreaming, almost seeming
And almost hoping, hoping, yet still not knowing reason
Also in the valleys, on the road through the black mountains
To be told of the worlds greatest thief, and his more ingenious apprentice
It is the blue-sky morning, with sun’s heat warm and rising
It is the great humanity, shared by those who love sharing
And the days are ever better, and the nights reserved for singing
Mingling with the poets, whose life is of all the seasons
We are jingling two together, for the two together dreaming
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