I'm planning on breaking the bank so I can finally take my
overpriced alliteration vacation.

I sold all of my favorite clothes to make ends meet,
So, I plan on wearing costumes all day to fake like I know what I'm doing.

it is a longer way,

mostly up hill then,

down.



we go round one way

one day,

then another way,

another day,



avoiding people.



mainly, yet we

talk to the stone mason

who likes to avoid

people too.



once i came this way with you.



sbm.

a busy little thing, buzzing down the estuary,

then back again, up and back,                          practising.


in order to acquire, improve or maintain proficiency in it.
“I need to practise my French”



no clouds to cover .                               it was a gentle day

of gardens, les cloche and legume given freely.



the pronounciation was not at all as it should be,

the company all welcome.



later the v22, toy osprey.                           delight.



sbm.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

it is another floral day,
with spring skies
and sunshine.

cotton fabrics,
bloom.

sbm.

have you ever gone back,
that painful journey,
watching swallows dip
as if they had never been away.

staggering the stones
you may find god in
water falling.

echoing all the tears
of your life.

sbm.

so feeling sickly

we confused the

artificial

for real.



came in from the sun.



dazed in the parlour,

until the feeling passed.



sbm.

Tho has made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me
That not one hour myself I can sustain.
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

Being the softy that I am,
I feel sympathy for all those prisoners
On Death Row,
No matter what they’ve done.

But then I reflect that every one of us
Is also on Death Row.
Unless perhaps you are an ancient tree,
Or one of those jellyfish
Who regenerates like Doctor Who.

For Death is inevitable
The moment we are conceived.
I look for ways around this
And only see
An ocean
Of Religious and Spiritual
Speculation.

Paul Butters