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...
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Every castle, someone's home...
This in response to Gooseberry Garden's prompt: Fortresses, Castles, Palaces, Royal Houses.
He was always finding places
you'd not have dreamed were there.
Once he found a grotto
hidden in The Silent Wood,
then Thursday last, the castle.
Him whooping mad for joy,
no way to calm him down,
insisted there and then
that I should take a look.
Big surprise, I can't deny.
turrets by the score.
One turret had collapsed -
well, I expected that, and more.
A total ruin, truth to tell -
though I'd not say so to him.
But some big "do" was taking place.
The moat bone dry, a car park now,
every bay was occupied.
Expensive cars at that: Bugattis,
Rollers, Aston Martins, Mercs
and many more; the owners, squeezed
into a tiny courtyard by the keep
where an orgy in full spate
had dolly birds in various states
of full or part undress.
We'd got there in the nick
to see the final act.
(Glad then, we didn't miss...)
Twenty minutes. Half an hour.
No more before
the tide would knock it down.