This pink pen & this pink poem, are born without being on mainland;

this piece's words, and now their home, still written in remorseless sand.

On beaches like these, markers are found; and  at Gibraltar's point it's somehow wound...

...up, so that these words of mine, carefully crafted, maycleverly shine:

May's final beams of copper light,
scintillate, their dancing,
till the water meets the night.

The Field is not empty,
It is full of life.
See beyond buildings,
They hide away the true beauty of nature.

The Field is not empty,
It has grass and thats enough.
Flowers that bloom all day long,
Beauty that you can see when you listen to your favorite song.

Wilted it wafts
Withering on the ground
Despite decomposition
It dare not make a sound
For life caused it to languish
As all living things ought
Now in rest is released
From all that death wrought

You scramble amid
The shattered
Jagged facets
Of yourself
A circus show
Of a hollow soul

Dreamshards
Timepieces
You caught a
Falling star
In a dead field
And it twisted
Life-like
In your grip

I am in the field,

surrounded by butterflies --


on my floral blouse.

It's the age range that strikes me, sitting here in the semi darkness, in Norfolk, in the Show Ground.

It's the age of the sky - the view consistent with years past, but fresh each day, each minute, ever changing and ever moving through star-scapes which shift as we speed through created space, spinning and moving on on voyages into the unknown, through brave new skys created for us to stretch our legs: us little space people, tumbling with nothing holding us up or down.

It's the age range - the trees standing for centuries,  the insects breathing their last before tea time,  and human kind, kidding ourselves that we're in control of all we survey, when the truth is quite different.

It's the age range -  the kids in their first year fascinated by all they see; school age children, waiting to be amused and vocal when parents fall short; teens fascinated by themselves and curious about boundaries;  young adults finding what lies beyond is just as amazing and just as laborious as they imagined;

and then the middle (and not so middle) aged, sporting practical footwear, factor 50, and voicing their conviction that they've moved the facilities further apart this year.

It's the age range of the new day generation - stretching from nought to mid eighties, all under canvas or luxuriating in caravans that, like their occupants, have arguably seen better days.

It's the age range and God's infinite patience with all of us, as he guides our paths, through space, through fields and through our years seeking him and through what he has prepared along the paths yet trodden - whether in practical boots, flip flops or crocks.

It's the age range that reminds me that we're all one generation as far as Father is concerned, cos we're all his children with no room for grandchildren in this family of God, in this field, under this sky that he created for weeks like this.