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 Sep 2015

• let the
ticks on
my wri-
or   that
of     my
pulse    •
for  what
i fail to cle-
nch in fist•in
my heart, nev-
er falters; never
  ■11            ^              1■  
■10                 I                 2■  
■9                    ●----->         3■  
■8                                      4■
■7          ­                       5■

with each tick of
the hand • is a
glimpse into
the uncert-
ain future
• let  slip
the  loo-
se   gra-
ins     of
lose the
al  gaps
to bring
 Sep 2015
Maude writes poems
Shrouded in mist you come for me
From the silence, from the cold.  
Waiting, watching has been your game.
Now you find me alone,
Hypnotised by the stillness,
Mesmerised by moments of sublime beauty as yet unseen.
I am helpless to resist.

What melody to find in silence,
What comfort in the earth!
Raindrops falling through trees echo through the forest.
A lone web hangs wet with dew.
A mushroom sits heavy with moisture on a tree stump.

The forest knows how to be in stillness
And make it's presence felt.
I wrote this while on retreat in the forests north of Berlin
 Jul 2015
Robert Herrick
I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.

— The End —