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.

the smell that entrances and calms the mind at heart
the beauty that draws the eye but with the fragility of withering apart
the scenery before me on the lonesome field brings me back when i was at peace
away from my broken mind where i'm brought back to the torment of seeing my reflection covered in a dark red grease
as i lay down in the field and lose focus in the vast sky i let open the gates of emotion to flood within
for being haunted by my past yet trying to move on with regret feels only like a sin
as the days grow darker my heart grows colder from suppression i've been cursed from this path i chose for myself
being trapped in this cage of isolated beauty hurts more than the cards i've been dealt
as i roam through the hills being careful to not ruin what little heaven i have granted for days on end
i think and ponder on what i have done to gain such relief from the anger but left alone to the hands of sorrow to be condemned
life seems funny as the flowers of never ending bloom show me nothing of the illusion of peace of mind
as the days go closer to a shade of black i stumble upon a unmarked stony grave which deep inside i know its mine
the flowers i've stained along the way have long forgave me but i lied feeling their false fury
for now do be it late i can smile knowing i've been freed as i'm tranquilly buried

I was like that a while ago
Now I’m on a field reading a book
It’s a book of poems by Sylvia Plath
And the world looks terribly sad
On the horizon but here the grass is green.

Your face looks blue in this light
Words softly said… you’re wonderfully lyrical
When you’re sad. What a terrible thing to say
Suddenly exclaimed, a laugh, swift movement
And drag of a cigarette. You stare at me

And say: that’ll **** you you know
But you look so good when you do it
So does it matter really and I look at you
And laugh and feel alive for the first time
In years and years and whispering you say

Remember the time we had met
And you showed me the way you painted
So dreamlike, so expressionistic.
I stared into the canvas and was ******
Into your mind, you put me into a trance

As potent as the nicotine rush of a cigarette
Take a draw and I watch the smoke
Rise into the air and far away…
How much of this city’s air is tobacco
A quick query a weak laugh.

Golden hour and the green hills
Turn into sand dunes collapsing
In on themselves, things come and go
In that way, time passes in a blink of an eye
And suddenly there is a void.

Nothing remains unless you put it on a canvas.
My body tears itself apart every seven years
And one day I will stop with the blink of an eye
And I never would’ve been here. They’ll stay.
The sands of time may drag me away

The universe through my eyes
May implode and blink out
But regardless of what happens to me
They’ll stay. They’ll always stay.
Your eyes are drawn to a canvas

On which was painted dreams
A splash of red, figure shining gold
With grey above it being the smoke
From a half used cigarette.
Staring at it hours after it’s conception

You tell me it’s the best work
You’ve seen in a long time
And even though I can’t take compliments
I turn to you and say, name it for me.
You call it expression of sunlight.