Heading home to our bustling town after being perched on the very edge of the North Yorkshire moors for 4 days. Time moves more slowly up here, not least because Time has to counter steep hills at every winding turn.
I'll miss the silence.
Sometimes nothing is all you need.
From the Goth Festival. Whitby.
A man with a live parrot on his shoulder, or a parrot with a live man on its claws. You can wear any colour as long as its black. Two demons kiss by a novelty rock shop. Crystals, jet and fresh sea air, it lures the Goths out of their lair.
Are burnished through time
By the feet of the living dead.
From smugglers at Loggerheads
To Captain Cook's Endeavours -
All roads must lead to today.
These cobbles, such printing presses of history,
Ultimately guide me
Into the Jet Age.
My garden looks raggedy, midway through the tattered confusion of autumn. A season of promises. What has gone before will come again. It's hard to believe when we scan our shabby shrubs and patchy plants, but as the Earth tilts slightly on its axis it gives us all a knowing wink.
Autumn and Winter are married. Leaf confetti continues to fall in celebration. Poor Summer. How must it be feeling? Dumped for a younger model. Spring catches the bouquet, already plotting to steal Winter, as this seasonal love rectangle slices into yet another wedding cake.
We've had an extra hour in bed
Or so the theory goes,
But I awoke an hour ahead
I missed out, I suppose.
A new day
B eckons
C horuses
D eliver
E minent
F elicitations
G reat
H ope
I n
J ust
K nowing
L ife
M eans
N umerous
O ases
P ausing
Q uiet
R eflection
S imple
T reats
U ltimate
V iability
W ondering
X pectation *
Y ielding
Z zz's
* (ok I cheated)
later than normal; I'm sipping my first when I'd normally be sipping my second or third, and I fear it may upset the space-time teaquilibrium.
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