The pinks have lost their passion
and the evening reds have dimmed.
Soft dew, soft light, soft darkness hide the thoughts
of these inseparable lovers, earth and sun.
Their ardour done,
their hidden source of energy run dry,
they turn apart like two magnetic toys
that will return.
Moon and stars may smooth their counterpane,
but I will not intrude.
Who knows what promises these lovers dream
who eight swift hours from now
will stir to some pale, tender
and involuntary touch?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...