Butterfly
Lighting them up in a dazzling pattern of deepest red
And palest yellows.
They open and close
Like eyes slowly blinking
In bright light.
And lift
Wings flitting around me furiously
Pushing me in random jerking movements
Towards glowing golden nectar waiting in its nest of petals.
My long tongue unfurls like a scroll
And dips into the shimmering feast.
The honey-like liquid is smooth and creamy
It fills my mouth and seeps throughout my body
Filling me with liquid light.
As another butterfly flutters towards me
I join him in the blue, blue sky
And we dance
Swooping past one another
Chasing
Twirling
Spinning
Through the air
Tumbling through the sky
A beautiful butterfly
Sunset
Its bright flank lowers carefully onto the horizon,
Dipping lower, nestling among the trees.
Its light pools atop the curling mist,
The clouds blush hot pink and marigold.
Is scattered with a thousand dew drops,
Each with a single tiny sun captured in its heart.
The evening breeze brushes over them,
Twining up a tree to flick gently against the leaves.
The wilderness is stirred momentarily to a solemn quiet.
The blackbird halts her fluting tune,
The cattle's broad head rises from his grazing,
The tulip folds, vibrant petals closing tight,
Is snuffed out by the dawning night.
The Wordsmith
As the Wordsmiths thoughts ebb and flow
Like a wave, they rise in a ripple
Growing in size as they near the shore
And crash in a shower of words and emotion
Just a spray from Literatures ocean
Into a basket slung over his arm
He cradles it close as he carries it up
Into his house on the cliffs of Vamhurp
A world far apart from all reality
Here he pours the water of reflection
Into a forge with greatest affection
Freezing the water into a smooth heavy block
The slab is hauled onto table of stone
He will sculpt and carve and hone
Is left a once sharp chisel blunt
And in the ice a story whirls
Of sparkling diamonds and shimmering pearls
Wake Up
Swept away by powerful gust
Eyes shoot open, swirling round
Rolling for the piercing sound
Crumpling the neat bedspread
Face distorts into a yawn
Scrunched up in the light of dawn
Faded by the waking sun
Alarm is slapped quite dutifully
With a tired and sleepy plea
An arm gets bruised against the door
Wake up sings chorus morn
Another day has just been born
Giffords Circus
There is something so deeply dazzling about the circus as to leave you with a lingering feeling of amazement and inspiration which is unparalleled by any other kind of performance.
Such a confusion and kaleidoscope of wonders and colour and impossibility.
It was utterly breathtaking and I loved every moment.
To be an utterly invisible gasping laughing silent in awe part of a crowd all held in the artful balance of suspense and delight.
The theatricality of it all was amazing.
Flying Home
What would Byron and Wordsworth write if they knew we would one day commute through the intangible mountains of white cloud, in a branded cylinder hurtling through the air, somehow more stable and smooth than rolling on rails in a train.
Sinking into the glow.
So vivid so glorious so heavenly.
It would give way to shadow and rain and muddy green and grey.
England. Home.