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...
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...
I have been struggling again of late to keep up with my visiting and commenting etc. The latest inroads into the time available for the keyb...
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...
Sunday, 5 February 2012
The Weeping Willow
The way it craves the river is well known.
Here though, on waterless terrain
persistence in its search for moisture leads
to form, the shape and feel of water -
there from the beginning in its name.
I look at it sometimes, imagining
I'm looking at its age-old fantasy
(obsession does make doubles of us all)-
a redefining of the term wet dream.
The dream is written clear in movements
of its silken skirt, smoothed by fingers
thin and thalli-like that, dipped
into the aqua apparition, will
be played like harp strings or become
a corps de ballet of the evening breeze.
Magpies flick through deeper streams
like bottom shadows of lost fish.
Stray sunbeams probe its depths.
Last night, ice covered when I looked,
I saw a frozen cataract - the dream
takes many shapes - a thousand tiny
water flows arrested by the cold.
White water in a different form.
Linking to dVerse Poets', The Object is Poetics.