There is a truly magical valley
Up to the north part of the Lakes District
As you pass through
Each side seems to have individual mountains
As the sun filters and dazzles
With swirling mists
That move around in ghostly fashion
Perhaps we could call it
The  valley of a thousand Hills

The stunning colour in our spring garden
Is absolutely breathtaking

Keith Wilson, Windermere, April 2017

The sun set beautiful
Red and orange
Mixed across the sky

Keith Wilson April 2017

A sad song whispers from the speakers.
The sound of her voice whispers in my head.

A word,
A phrase,
Meanings lost
In the covering of years.

The snow crunches lightly under tires
Worn with miles trying to outrun her memory.
My hands shake on the wheel,
I can't forget the sound of her voice.

The speakers go silent as the song ends,
The darkness seems to be nearer now.
Headlights no longer cutting through
The black.

I drive on.
Running from it all.
Running is all I know.
Hiding in the night.

The song starts again.

lush cornucopia of greens
and overlapping canopies.
rays filtered through
somewhat a broken lens.

an arbour found
which carelessly took root.
calling out,
inviting,
offering sanctuary
from the shrill calls
of the turbulent outside.

a harbour
to which my heart
had taken to.
and had intended to stay.

but such is the nature
of man.

     no other man's peace
          can be left unruffled.
     no other man's cocoon
          can be left unravelled.
     no other man's haven
          can be left uninvaded.
     and no other man's trove
          can be left unraided.

like before I'll have to go.
and just like man's exploratory nature,
I leave seeking another
unfound recluse.
inadvertently,
paving the way for more to come.