Morning's still an artist's impression that's been sketched from previous accounts. A reconstruction of a morning, such is the early hour at which I wake. I'm certain the sun will rise. I believe in the testimony. I believe in the artist's ability.
Hope they catch its good side
When I see a passing plane I wonder where it's going
It might be off to sun kissed shores I have no way of knowing
I wonder if the plane is off on long or just short haul?
I wonder if they think of us as much or not at all?
In a half-realised, early morning, my garden is still being drawn. My bush is mostly a giant hedgehog, the holly tree a fearsomely armoured knight. My lawn, a misty sea of shifting sand. Light rubs out my fantasy world. It disappears into my imagination, where it rests a while.
Cemetery stories : The plot within the plot. We all hope for a multigenerational epic saga and not the flash fiction of some. But I suppose if a story touches your heart, one that we can relate to, then it matters not the length of the tale but the fact it got to be told at all.
The man's clothes were shoddy and of poor material
But he sucked on a mint that made him feel imperial.
If only words formed like visible breath on cold mornings. We could carry them around like tiny language ballons.
"Good Morning", tied to a piece of string, would mean we could simply smile at people we meet. We'd knowingly nod and point to the words bobbing alongside us.
Pop!
How I love the weak pulses of starlight that throb from deep space. A connection to a time when even dinosaurs and the very land on which they walked were twinkles in Father Time's eyes. Infant time, heartbeat time, reaching us through the veil, remembrance of what is to come.
There once was a man who swept up some leaves
And the wind did its best to disrupt him
But he was a poet, he'd worked at his drafts
And would not let this breeze interrupt him.
It's easy to get lost within the maelstrom
It's hard to seek a way out from the storm
Though we find ourselves upon rough waters
Most of us will make it back to port
Not for us the waving wives to greet us
Not for us the flag-strewn harbour bay
That final time when silent drops the anchor
Dry land and tall tales is where we'll stay.
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