Somewhere in the mind,
just for a second's fleeting glance,
a part, a sixtieth or less,
a shutter opened, and an image
such as we have not seen since, flashed in.
That was our childhood
and it's gone.
"Ah, but," you say, "the light was different then!
We cannot do that now. It does not look the same."
You are correct, the light was different then,
for we were children and we quarried it.
The light, you might say, was bespoke;
the images were as we wanted them.
We pulled them out like polaroids,
but knew the difference between
the instant and the instantaneous.
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...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...