I have walked these moors at night
and walked the Cornish cliffs at night
and not disturbed a single bone
(as far as I could know)
of those who lie below.
And should I then dig down below,
disturb the bones to better know
the Arthur's and the Guineveres
who walked these hills
so long ago?
If I could dig deep in these hills
and find there in some ancient grave
the bones of what is yet to come,
those bones I would disturb and save
and savour all my days.
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...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...