I've seen foreign stones bleed out fountains of wanderlust down your waterfalls
I've seen shards of mirrors swimming in the ripples of your sea
The one's that still hold the reflection belonging to the wandering passerby on your streets
I've watched as droplets of ink from a sunset sky pour onto your maps
Colouring in the roads that lead to your history
I've seen the flowers in your gardens spread their fragrance onto the sleeves of those lost in your alleys
And the soil underneath them surrounds the seeds of friendship that they leave behind
I've seen hope in the layers of your canyon rock
And resilience in the avalanches of snow that tumble down your mountains
I've seen the architecture of your emotions towering over my outstretched hand

And now I sit by the water trying to paint a picture of your roads on its surface
My hand reaches out into the distance, waiting for the light of your moon to embrace it
And I watch as the stars paint constellations that remind me of you
I dwell in the lonesome nostalgia, recollecting every fading memory
Hoping that when the sun glitters on the surface of your water
You'll see me sitting there, painting a picture of you

The buildings are square
Lost is the taste
Profits are calling
Often built in haste
What an insult to the past
In this beautiful space
Opportunity to inspire
But more than likely a waste

hey architect,
You've been given a vacant terrain,
somewhere  crowd of green grasses
a meeting place of tall trees.
Go straight from that vacant terrain to the paper.
With sunlight, air movement and some related content, You draw some 2D lines.
Each line carries the meaning.
You also make them in many different shapes.
At the same time, hundreds of calculations and ideas are exchanged with new thinking.
A 3D form of imagination that builds on thin lines.
Where you can imagine gestures used by users, shuttle of light somewhere, and fair use of green etc.
which make meaningful sense of that space.
Which actually constitutes invisible mass.
Then you are there to make your invisible mass visible,
At the end, it becomes visible.



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she finally found the light,
after her darkest hours
antecedently it's
the tallest and the brightest
skyscrapers blazed those
cold weary nights

Should architecture
be stimulating
and pleasing
to the mind and heart?

From far away they come
hard men all,
mercenaries under a foreign sun

oblivious to its rays they
bare all, turning puce red
or peel, under hard hats,

cut down jeans, working boots,
tool belts, like desert rats
fighting for a new horizon

Scouse, Manc, Paddy
nicknamed and framed
by the mockery of their peers

shouting language across green lawns
not yet laid, that most definitely
won’t be heard in the select circles

that will inhabit these modern homes
castles one and all, individually the same
oh no, they won’t be welcome

lowering the neighbourhood tone,
four wheel drive and pick-up
replaced by Mercedes and BMW

Nature settles in again, to frame
like the scar around a wound
healed but never quite the same

So they move on, soldiers of fortune,
mercenaries under a foreign sun
building new structures to change our futures.

Scratch the itch from the poison of modernity
in the tapestry of culture as it contrasts and conflicts
in gentrified decay; where UV is cast into stone
as it crumbles to the sound of archaic rhythm.

Only some of the clock hands refuse to turn
to allow different splinters of time to converge.
as others idle by propelled by contemporary euphoria;
grinding on ages already passed.

Mechanisms of time fragment in the sound of simplicity,
relics are no longer held in memory
but carved in hieroglyphs,
worn into cobblestones of interchangeable streets
all leading to a history which repeats.