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...
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
these rain drop darts
colder than we'd thought...
copse to field
then field to lake
and back to copse.
Our eyes have followed it
above the heathered hills.
We are agreed
the shower returning
airborne in the sense of everyday
seems not to touch the surface of the lake
so bright the light reflecting there.
and the lake's arms open,
welcome back the darts
which pit the surface.
each with its tall steeple
placed dead centre.
(Strange, I had not noticed them before.)
Short lived, of course,
as everything is bound to be
in such a spiralling universe.