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...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
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...
The final images below are from my now defunct website which I decided to revisit (cannibalise, if you will) a while back. They are a few ye...
Below is the third - and, so far as I can tell at present, the final - draft of a poem for which I have been quite unable to find a title to...