28

Some people are steady, as those beautiful waves, that lap gently to and fro, on the vast expanse of golden sands

There are those, less steady, who like their music played loud, who thrive on explosions in the sky

Then there are the lucky ones, those free spirited souls who step easily from one path to the other; one day rich with laughter playing hopscotch or marbles, one day reflecting quietly, reading their latest book; or else they are to be found, drunk as lords, with friends in the pub, or asleep, on the grass verge

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27

One hundred Monday mornings
One hundred photographs along the way
Glimpses of the mood
Captured in that wellspring of emotion
Notes made on the road
More of the Christopher, and less of the Kerouac

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26

There is a church
With a small spire
It shows a precision
Which its diminutive
Clock face signs off

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25

I have been heavy handed, but
Not in a heavy-handed sort of way
More of having the will to impose my will
On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes
In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way
But more I feel as a demonstration
Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

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24

In this air, which we call our clear air
There floats at least a million dust mites
Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis
Does the light sparkle through tree and window
There to show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling
No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well
That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

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