so should I
be wearing one of those
black postboxes
to spare the chicks from
lusting after me?
Yours metaphorically,
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The house across the way is newly painted white.
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,the morning sunlight pours across white paint;contains a thousand messages, in meinterpreted.. or simply left to be..this moment, that’s as much as being craves:this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..even as I write, I watch the sun’swhite paint brush move across the house’s frontand tell the eye…
You brought your watercolour kit.
in the centre of the villagelike a mother hen at drowsy middaysurrounded by her chicks;the red-white flag of Saint Georgethe only sign of life, fluttering likean aerial footnote to history(or for some, a corner of a foreign football field…)but there’s a new detail in the picturesince last you sketched here:the newest arrival is the oldest:…
where the unlimited meets the limited,
where the unseen meets the seen,and the eye meets the heart;where the earth meets the seed,and the seed meets the root;where the root meets the earth;and the flower meets the air;where the heart meets the thought,and the thought meets the sound;where the sound meets the word;and the word meets the voice;where joy arises,and where sorrow…
It takes all sorts to make a world, they say
but it certainly looks like that here this sunny day:some just want to be as ordinary as they can be.don’t want to stand out in a crowd.some don’t want to be noticed at all.some are the opposite – pompous, arrogant, reckon they’ve made it..some have fallen flat on their face – as happens.some get fresh…
I love to see the daffodils,
In jugs upon the window-sillsthey make me feel so mellow!But when the daffs begin to niffit gives my Will the willies,so now I buy them market-fresh,flown over from the Scillies.
Those days when an invisible armchair
that’s an exquisite, savoured blendof innocence and experience,which might even be thought to bewisdomexcept you don’t even need to think itsince you’re simultaneously 7 and 70and thus invulnerabledays when I wish the house had a verandahwhere in the evenings I could sit:‘I’m here, I’m watching it all go by,you can stop and chator wave and…