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, 4 July 2012
I could be treading water
through this dusky coloured air
lapping like an ocean at the boles of woodland trees
then merging with a wide expanse,
opaque and greenish hued,
of underwater gloom,
profoundly deep where sunlight filters through
and makes unreal suggestions of a surface high above.
Dark streaks of simmering Venetian red
suggest a dying sun where foliage
with sharp serrated edge
leans threateningly in.
And then the mystery, my friends:
the twisted frames of cycles on a bonfire not yet lit.
Smoke blackened, but not here - the foliage intact.
A skeleton... not human... no, not that... but
bird-like... and the bikes... in spiky set-up, weld
upon sly weld, to form,
in ill-defined resemblances, a pentagram
and Plato's broken line, an endless knot,
an enneagram, a sulfur, crescent, crux,
a ringstone and infinity - a stunning cycle crash!