yes back in action,
but too much work,
                     as last week I
have worked only few days
                                 and
tomorrow is going to be
                       long day as going to see      
                             my client based in
             Fareham, it is 4hrs one way travel
so overall 8hrs travel and 3 meeting, so really eleven hours work with only 3hrs paid LOL

Little ****** blighter unsightful
Strut on the pavement cement
Droppings like rain
Feathers rough and unclean
Yuck they coo
They never seem new
Yet we know that they
Die too.

Two ducks quack a lover's fued
Coffee steam is rising well away
From he that burns here in
Ashen lava pools my hand
Falls in and melts away only
To regrow holding a snowdrop
Unscathed by wrath which boils
She turns about and says speaking
Low to threat 'go then' I can
Only offer the flower which melts
In the act. I entreat the flames retreat
The belly of the world spits souls
Into fresh bodies morphet anew
From old, not so but middle-aged
Sacred **** lived beyond the reach
Of time that ticks and claws
All downward were it not for life
Anew time might win.

Buds burst forthwith outward
Leaving the private world of
Growth to be anew
The foal steps lightly
First on air then grass

Smoke rushes in hunlike
Ostentatiously in combat
Purity is its own demise
Osmosis and entropy reign

I will send the birds to you
And they will sing
What I cannot say
For whose lips dare proclaim
That they can speak of love
Love is the force behind all
Mere thinking mort I
And cannot speak the divine
Yet a bird is pure and knows
What to sing and when
So watch, for birds, and listen
They will not lie
Like I might, they are sweet
Where I am cold, able
Where I fail and on wing
They flit with the elegance
Of a ballet with no schooling
They have my envy as I plod
On square feet towards
My mortal grave

This day winding down now
Cogs of time turned by turetlesGrinding axles ssquealing
In the mouth of a gull
In my wind rocked home
Sounds permeate the gloom
Steam and spilt droplets of
Freshly poured milk mark
The ashen counter top
Grey becomes rose as the sun
Traverses its casing in the sky
Low now, light gets into my eyes
A flock of crows fly to the treetops
Cawing in their cacophinous way.
Daffodils are aging and leaning
On the stems leaves slightly wilting
Crocuses are lying down ready
To sleep the long dream of death.

Arms grasping war machines
I wanted history and it is grim
The walls are devoid of art
Fu of ways to blow things apart
So much of history behind glass
Fingerprints on glass te me
Where to direct my sorrowful gaze
I try to take it in but the news
Rambles through my skull
History is not done yet
The fighting goes on and on.