The pinks have lost their passion
and the evening reds have dimmed.
Soft dew, soft light, soft darkness hide the thoughts
of these inseparable lovers, earth and sun.
Their ardour done,
their hidden source of energy run dry,
they turn apart like two magnetic toys
that will return.
Moon and stars may smooth their counterpane,
but I will not intrude.
Who knows what promises these lovers dream
who eight swift hours from now
will stir to some pale, tender
and involuntary touch?
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...