Scattered light
mottles through the rank of trees
reigning over the aisle between fields
in royal stainglass arcs of protection.
The wheat is young and green
though stretches tall enough to dance under the influence of wind's song
and conceal
scurrying mouse, hare
and proud breasted pheasant
from hunters gun and farmers dog.
No echoed shots ring out today
only the call of birds
seeking twig and thistledown
to weave chalice cupped homes
high up in the throne of trunk,
out of view
from all but the few
who come to seek solitude.

The cost of a dream
castrates it
uneven
unclean
sharp as a window's peak
or the mock of hindsight
is it because it's a selfish thing
to want what is wanted?
Can we allow ourselves
to be purely happy
without the inevitable afterthought
of why is there always a price,
or anxiously expecting negativity?
Perhaps it's just me...
unless the dream is for another.

Relationships based predominantly on *** are like chewinggum:
Sure it's mouthwatering and juicy at first, but when the flavour goes you're left going through the motions. Sooner or later you're gonna bite your tongue or be spat out on the pavement and trampled upon.

Sponsored by the good people of beefjerky,

Comes a time when you surmise opportunity is ripe to dare a move
to allow fingers to do what they were meant to:
to reach and touch another's.
Or a hunch
those words often held
in check
have reached the point to breach
the dam of uncertainty
cos you can't hold 'em back.
Comes a time when there is certainty
in a feeling that there's
more to this than pleasantries,
and perceived fringes of opportunities.
Comes a time when you commit
those thoughts
and digets
and lips
to the lean
to the kiss
to the pathway
of least
resistance.

Dainty hours
spent with her petal soft smile
lush exchanges
how her mouth makes words warm
delicate  moments
when our eyes held each other
little desolate
when hands separated
and time disconnected us
as it blindly does
without so much as an apology

It's a quarter past Wednesday,
the coffee's late,
my bag-o-bones is dragging slow.
Heard little bo peep sold her sheep for gin
killing off the nursery rhyme.
Can't decide if that's a bad thing.
Feel like a late planted seed
unsure if it's roots can reach
deep enough to sustain strong growth.
Maybe tomorrow I'll have shoots and a little hope,
or leaves to sooth doubt,
or buds of competence
or fruits of confidence
and a coffee when I need it most.