The line of trees
How might I believe
Beyond the night’s darkness
The pathway through the woods
All uphill until
The bright clearing appears
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
The line of trees
How might I believe
Beyond the night’s darkness
The pathway through the woods
All uphill until
The bright clearing appears
I do not know of Le Bon or of Hippolyte Taine before him, although I did once stay in the Place de la République
The closest that I get to mob culture is in the football crowd, where I occasionally do move from individual thought
Of course I despise those politicians, especially the conservatives, who chose to name group behaviour as mindless and without reason
Instead, even though my own experience questions it, I prefer to believe that I behave as a thoughtful individual, whether alone or gathered in a crowd
Ordinary things
Smaller things
A note about the builder
Coming to do repairs
Orgasmic with their climactic noise
Then
When the dry weather arrives
The painter will paint the walls
Ash is the hardest tree
And to return the cruellest track
Yet both are in the realm
Of those beautiful days
When the blue skies
And the gentle breeze
Take their turns to play
The questions that I ask
Which no one answers
With a yes or a no
Yet they espouse
The pathway to their house
Or their door
But green is the colour
That I seek
Not stop, nor wait, but go