Take me back to the pond of stagnant time,
back to the musky corners of the night,
back to the moon and its shimmering light,
back to the scourges of your grace sublime.

Back to the moment when the gap was bridged,
back when your silence consented my hand,
back when we laid on the ivory sand,
back when you pondered the depth of the ridge.

I did not know then (I could not have known),
your beacons were lit, the wind had not blown,
that Beauty had struck-- How dear the cost.

I look at myself, the scorched earth of Troy
And I cannot find a measure of joy
that once it was mine, and ever is lost.

the pond moth flaunted its wings
in the remorseless water
wider than it would
when in the meadow sky
there dead-white it laid
like an opened orchid

The silent moon
over the old pond
perhaps lost for words.
If only it could
describe the charm
mirroring a mirror
of ancient calm!

Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.


Tom Spencer © 2015

Sun sets as the day comes to rest.
just peaking over the hill
it dimly lights the sky
White to pink clouds fill.

dreams of floating on these evening pillows
made of silver lining with no thought of the fall bellow.

On this pink cloud sets the atmosphere
Relaxed layed back
romantic lighting fills my mind here.
Jazz and blues is carried with the winds pushing these clouds.
No worries of fear only beauty to see and hear

But every cloud is different in shape and size
This only the thought of my pink cloud.
everyone has their way to float
What makes you smile and gives you the inspiration.
pink clouds made of temptation.
pink clouds are our own interpritation
whats your pink cloud
If you felt like you were to high to jump wat would be your floatation

I have dreams that I once was
A free majestic albino peacock,
Jewellery trapped under a rock.
I have dreams that I never was.

I have dreams  that I once was
An old tree covered in snow,
Winds that took an eastern blow.
I have dreams that I never was.

I have dreams that I once was
A poor little drowning fish,
A silver ring left to tarnish.
I have dreams that I never was.

I have dreams that I once was
A lot of things and one thing,
But I never was anything.
I have dreams that I once was.


--Watercolour