Our memory films our passing.
And more, it edits it,
selects the pleasant facts.
Thrown back upon that inner screen,
away from all that fashioned it,
it loses sense
It flickers intermittently.
Deep shades of thought and meaning pass before our eyes
but somehow in the video
the deeper feeling dies.
We still, as in a dream, receive
the vicious blow again
and dream-like still
the blow we feel,
but do not sense the pain.
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...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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...