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...
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...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
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...
Saturday, 28 July 2012
How difficult sometimes
to make the right connections
to solve a puzzle or a problem
understand a work of art
or get from A to B on train
or bus, to telephone for information
that only some remote call centre has.
So easy once,
just lifting the receiver,
waiting for the operator's voice
asking which connection you required.
Number twelve, you'd say,
and hear her voice again, Ah,
Mrs Bradfield in the High Street -
often not at home this time of day...
And all connections came that easily, back then.
The transport ones for instance:
we'd step from one into the next -
and always home by tea.
These days the web connects us
to a host of folk we only think we know
and to a thousand treasure caves
of source, resource and reference.
but behind the changing scenes of life's connections
are a million billion constant ones
on which the rest depend,
connections that we make and break unknowingly -
and certainly not knowing how or why -
each moment of our lives.
Their very number is beyond
all our conceiving.
We make and break them in the brain. They make it
possible for us to breathe,
to eat, walk, talk and think -
and build connections on the web
and in our daily lives.
Linking to Brian Miller's theme Thursday of the same title.