Poetry (words)

The rest.

Autumn, when the blankets of green have left, when the perfumed blooms have faded to stained parchment that hang in stasis until the blade once again stems their slow demise.

It’s now that the air we breathe is visible and all landscapes bear their scars. The long sleep awaits yet the world becomes a noisy reminder of how we shelter in the shade of seasons.

How different life feels when early birdsong clings to sunrise. When the skittish wings of the butterfly capture but a moment of a life more fleeting than a change of heart in a diary.

Now the chimneys bring a leaden hue that will blend with bonfires and petrol fumes. The chop and burn retrospective of mistakes we continue to deny as we huddle in this time..for now..

Poetry (words)

Writer, architect, conjurer

There beneath the flyway memories lay like a breath on the water in autumn air, shimmering into the fade.

Do you find that certain people have the ability to write something that not only captures your heart, but places a map inside your mind too. A map that if cast aside feels like a betrayal to the trust in which it was given.

If you could fill sails with their words all inlets would flow to oceans, faultlessly unhindered like the pages that drew lines towards the headlands.

Does the fallen petal mean the death of a flower or is it just a page finished and freed. That its colour fades is life at speed, a window of opportunity grasped like a pen in the dreamers hand.

Writer, architect, conjurer. I walk within your moods, I see through different windows, but I am drawn by your hand