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...
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...
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...
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Dead to the World
The always-locked gate swinging wide.
And, unattended for a while,
small Eleanor is drawn towards
the path beyond, the song of birds,
the scent of flowers beckoning.
A whole new world to toddle in.
Eleanor loves red hot pokers,
the adults said when they returned -
and made for them, to start the search.
By the beds. Along the borders.
Among the trees and in the pond.
Not one discovered trace of her.
Back to the house to summon help,
and there, beside the open gate,
Eleanor stretched out, her hands and
face mud-covered, scratched; her white dress
faintly smeared with blood; both feet bare,
and she, dead to the world - asleep.
I went to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads to post a poem to their Open Link Monday. Instead, their image of an open gate with a garden beyond suggested the above poem.