Oh Light, you travel so fast,
invisibly cladding
this planet in change which
nothing can hinder,
altering colourless night-hue
you, in an eye's flick
gilt sea's face, reveal distance,
you, more than that
touch land in filigree-silver,
melting black fingers
of mist netting dune's grass
and more than that,
your whispers to unfolding
flora in still-dark
corners make numberless
petals succumb
to your calls, sensuous fur
feels your warming
as feathery sleep blinks in
readiness to dawn's
breezy ruffles for morning
stirs wings, fins
stretch in watery beds and
more than that,
humanity worldwide yawns
at your warning
of lullaby's finish and shakes
off drowse to see
how labour for hours ahead,
can be a life-giving
force with daylight's ready
aid, more than that
each sunset aims to put end
to your daily
performance but not before
that glittering exit,
the show of best-rays taking
central stage after
which Oh Light, you sink
slowly back into
your secret abyss and wait,
for more than
unthinkable would be life's
disastrous lack
if your worthy entrance it's
cue ever missed,
and for this, every earthling
human or otherwise
relaxes while offering sighs
of meant thanks.
to Light and to its Creator.

New Depths.

Find the place where two seas meet,
stand on the edge of seen and unseen
and listen to Heaven speaking.

Love is too vast to describe in words,
look in the human mirror's universe
and discover new depths of person.

Real soul-beauty is empty of Self
but is filled with wonder's ecstasy.

Like flattened tin the shiny-faced sheet
of evening sea
buckles under a last languid breeze.

Wavelets slip free from liquid's neap-net
but height-less,
white tops become ****** back again.

Like metallic shush ebb-tide's lullaby
scrapes silence
from pebble-sand's continued sighs.

Gilded froth of night's low clouds touch
orb's drop as it
sinks into dusk's merciless clutches.

Like gossamer shroud mist covers light
and day recedes
'til dawn once more is ready to fight.

Here breaks another dawn
where light's breath still indrawn
enters new morning

Rays chase away stars, dies
the dark while smouldering sky
sees Ol' Sol rising.

Here edge of night persists
with early wet ****-red mists
which warming resists.

Light rejoices in day's birth
by a boisterous outburst
of language unheard.

Here at dawn's choice moment
of molten change explosive
chaos re-forms.

Once in a while
fold back that vanity of solo-dreams
and enter behind
the phantom where hangs concealed
a land of angelic
enchantment where spirited dancing
is made so attractive,
anticipate rapture in an advancement
toward fairy contact.

Seek Flora's cloud,
Queen of the Feys, she of fine stardust
dresses in smiles,
finest of ribbons perfumed with musk
light her prettiness
in spritely cascades, she of kiss- curls
bound up in brightness,
is there now and waits to be whirling
with you in delight.

Ask her to dance,
ethereal music embroiders her glance,
and as you unwind
earth-bound views unlock for fanciful
paths to entrancing
Togetherland that, angel-hued, sways
in gossamer-hold
of beckoning hands who yours favour
for a mystical duo.

Dancing with angels
is high on the list for poets who fancy
time spent with muses
so not to be missed is the first chance
to step on Fey's floor
and take her in dance as magic occurs
when bliss heightens
the urge to write and make of words
something delightful.

The wish of a painter or poet is to transport
spirit's emotion
by stopping in awe at night's
vaulted scene
and viewing grassland as more than green.

An alchemist with no interest in gold
takes up better investment,
finds a thermal to soar on fancy or some
updraught for imagination
to make jasper of sea, jade of dawn
and perceive jewels hiding in shape or form.

A seer catches the farside's face
and traces that world in sentence or paint,
chimeric in nature an artist
whose eye encounters rock gives it heart,
transforms by description the seen
as mundane to have mystic meaning,
adds soft to feather, colour to blur
and improves initial by depicting further.

It is said that fine art opens doors
to show extraordinary as but quite normal
for good poet or painter
ranks magic as foremost importance when
met with blank canvas