Poetry (words)

Gaze.

To hold a gaze, to take that moment with you. Not a glance, not a passing look, but that thrill when eyes seem to merge. Intimate, like a soul bared and captivation shared. I wonder what lies between the gaze, if thoughts are suspended there, masterpieces of unspoken words, unwritten pages.

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Poetry (words)

Tapestries

I am all eyes and you are all wonder. I am of caution, but not of your making. This landscape of my heart, its trenches and scars in need of repair, jaded not dead.

You are still waters a tapestry of depth, not obvious, not incessant. Each strand interwoven, each vein a path to your soul.

You are shelter from the heat, like the coolest chapel walls, the light on the horizon when I am surrounded by the darkest skies.

I am approaching thresholds and you meet me halfway. You’re the stranger I struggled to see, but as you stand in the doorway I can see nothing else

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Poetry (words)

Are we there yet?

Are the joys we hold nothing more than transactions, are we there yet? Are these roots ours, did we mistake life as ownership. Is the river flowing, did the branches drop seeds at dusk, did the sun still rise and fall? Was your train delayed, did you complain? Did you fill out forms, tick the relevant boxes, did it rain? Is your neighbour ok, are the children hungry? Did your parcel arrive on time? Will the shelter of oaks ease my mind, will they give and keep giving, will wildflowers sustain when the pollinators fall. Are we there yet. Does the tide move your soul, unscripted as it is, does an actor have to explain all the things you can’t feel. Did you see the sky last night? Did the stars captivate your gaze, did you flick that switch? It killed the light. Are your grades all that define you, you wear them so well. A glowing reference on your way to the top. Does your office have a view? Do you?  Silence, isn’t it beautiful. How it sits beside me like an old friend lost for words. Humbled, I am constantly.

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Poetry (words)

Of nature.

There is no fate here, just a memory on a wave, a moment in time. Destiny a spiderweb, a looking glass of light. A slow trickle becomes a stream, a reflection of all it sustains. Is this study or becoming? Would I swap these limbs for the iridescent wings of a dragonfly to capture light like faith in the cathedral glass.

Beauty is defined here, on a sensual breeze that shines in whispers crossing time, a slowing of speed to equal the heart. Poems are thoughts before they are words, flowing to fruition like the uncurling fern or the fledglings feathers in that first tentative flight. Although the tools that place them here are the implements of man, they are born of nature.

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Poetry (words)

Within this pause

The landscape…it breathes, every curve an undiscovered sigh. We scale its heights, our footprints the tiny repercussions of our existence. Without knowledge we clamber through. When the silence falls does the ground exhale, do the trees celebrate our slumber. This short window of freedom until we once more stake claim on the vast swathes of beauty. Our plots, our properties, our concrete mass inching further still like a slow ocean of ignorance.

Nature forgives, it battles through our disasters. It drowns in our discarded commitments, it sustains, it replenishes, it heals. We are blind to its scars, in all of our scurrying we see but fleeting snippets of life. In silence the land reclaims and within this pause the seeds of infinite life are born.

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Poetry (words)

Walking the path.

Every morning and evening I get a connection for a couple of hours. I upload my photos and I read Robert Macfarlane’s ‘Word of the day’. Every day ends as perfectly as it started. I sleep with a contented soul. I have no particular route, just walk, absorb the light and surroundings. Notes, not that strong emotions are fleeting, but they sometimes come like the spring tide in a gale. Sometimes completely new sensations, watching the clouds slowly overwhelm the landscape with shadow. Pockets of light revealing hues often unnoticed. Stonework like a palette of watercolours for the finest painting, how they blend with nature….

…..to be continued

Been walking with “Noonday Dream” today. Maybe I’m biased, but it’s a beautiful album. Lyrically poignant. ‘What the Moon Does’ is my favourite track.

Having a beer and listening to the sea, out of reach. Out of the loop.

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Poetry (words)

Emerald dreams. 


Could I be this lucky, this drop of life beneath the darkest pinhole sky. Look up and tell me of wealth, breathe in and expel the myths of fortunate kings. This capture and keep mentality how it drowns the bravest voice. 

This moment will pass too soon, but it lives long enough to be painted by this novice hand. How could I not be moved. Amongst this emerald dream I am the curious being, the outsider looking in. 

From a book of lines I captured time in the shade of morning’s forgiving light as dandelion clocks took flight. I planted thoughts beneath the ground and gave them room to exhale, that they might grow when I move on. 
What more could I possibly ask for,  here where the last blossoms fall like wishes from the lips of time. Short lived but irreplaceable, like a night in the woods. 

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