"congregate" poems
Her lips, tight and curved,
Ready to string up an arrow
And launch it to the sky
To explode into a fine dust
Where a myriad of stars congregate
Just to kiss your freckled cheeks
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
30.8k
JANUARY
Delightful display
Snowdrops bowing pure white heads
To the sun’s glory.
FEBRUARY
Fresh green buds appear
Indicating spring will soon
Energise us all.
MARCH
Lambs gambol in fields
Frisky with the joys of life
Bleating happily.
APRIL
Bluebells stand so proud
Beneath trees now sparsely dressed
Fresh green leaves unfold.
MAY
Much awaited sound
Echoes heard amid dense trees
Cuckoo has arrived.
JUNE
Parks and gardens burst
With sounds and vibrant colours
Perfect harmony.
JULY
Beaches become full
Of families having fun
In sand and big waves.
AUGUST
Ripe golden harvest
Burning sun in azure skies
Labours rewarded.
SEPTEMBER
Swallows congregate
On telephone wires ready
To migrate down south.
OCTOBER
Red and gold leaves fall,
Crunchy as cornflakes beneath
Feet on a crisp morn.
NOVEMBER
Frosty webs sparkle
In the early morning sun
Brightly bejewelled.
DECEMBER
First few flakes of snow
Dust gardens like icing on
A chocolate cake.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
Clothe yourself in the full armor of God
and be able to withstand the Devil’s schemes;
know that he’s only the father of lies,
looking to destroy your earthly dreams.
Cover yourself with Christ’s Breastplate
of Righteousness and protect your torn heart;
your essence has been purchased for His Kingdom,
meaning that you’re meant… to be set apart.
Gird your waist with the Belt of Truth
and stand firm with integrity and honesty;
don’t allow your flesh’s nature to interfere
with conditions that you need observe and see.
Shod your feet with the Gospel’s peace;
keep from searching for earthly trouble;
instead congregate with the Body of Christ
and focus on your faith becoming redoubled.
The ongoing battle is not with flesh and blood;
wield Faith’s Shield to quench life’s fiery darts.
Remember that the wiles of Satan are limited!
So outmaneuver him with your spiritual smarts.
Put on your Helmet of Salvation,
for the battles are within one’s mind.
Allow the Divine knowledge of The Word
to resonate with your spirit and find…
yourself continually praying in the spirit
and with understanding on all occasions.
Be alert to His transformational messages,
for upholding Godly principles and persuasions.
Resist the Devil now and he will flee;
endeavor to thwart the enemy’s attack;
be strong in the Lord with power of His might;
promises of victory have been already stacked.
For we don’t wage war with human methods and plans.
We use mighty weapons to knock down evil strongholds
and breakdown every proud argument that keeps people
from knowing God… as His Kingdom, continues to unfold.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Eph 2:2, 6:10-20; 1 Thes 5:5-8; Joel 2:12-13; Rom 4:5;
Jam 4:7; 2 Cor 10:3-5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1388058560&sr;=1-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Eid Al Adha;
Eid of Sacrifices
and the celebratory end of Hajj.
Purity abides around their heart
as souls are blessed with the
sown seeds of joy.
Allah hu Akbar;
takbir echoes
as devotees congregate in
every mosque nearby.
They wear embellished clothes,
extending their hearts to one another
and capturing the ecstasy
in every single encounter.
Sentiments are reciprocated,
and gratitude is manifested
on such an occasion
as we recall the origins of the
reason we sacrifice;
and that is to follow the order of Allah,
as Prophet Ibrahim did.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 12:03 PM UTC
A princess made of bubbles.
Flowers open to reveal
a world
where the ants congregate.
Light drips and pours
little rivers through trees that grow pockets, holding dust
that makes you sneeze sparkle streaks.
Watch out for the grass that looks too green.
It'll tickle your little feet.
The purple fields are much nicer.
As soft as the lime green grizzly who lives in the cave
made of quartz.
Lay down.
Listen to the song of
Kistin.
The king, the leader.
The buffalo who keeps the peace
and keeps it all in the pretend.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
As we struggle for air
Waves crash black bones,
Trees subjugate,
Flocks congregate,
Lost, like dog without bone,
We wither away endlessly
Without a say,
but remain warm
For arms of open joy,
As we fear we might lose
A place we once built,
But remain blind
Of her flawless beauty.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
As we congregate
For centuries
Humanity had
The best thoughts
To create an ecosystem
Where all lives can thrive
But somewhere
We have lost the plot
And veered away
From the values
That all lives matter
Now minuscule section
Takes decisions for us
Manipulating the ecosystem
Creating a façade
For us to believe
Lot many minds think alike
Individual thoughts drown
Mirror is the only escape
Where we can talk to ourselves
Without the distortions
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.
"Tell me what's off limits."
Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.
"Why?"
"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."
I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. *What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?*
I can't stop.
Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Wavering.
Leafless.
Pot-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.
I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.
I climb her branches.
I can't stop.
Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I
stumble.
Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.
Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.
I can't stop.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
There is no other flower bloom
that by its self represents such gloom
As that memorial flower Poppy red
stained by Knights long now dead
that delivered their last drop of life filled Zest
and sprinkled red the white Poppy blessed.
Time has shown the pale grim faces
of fallen comrades in ****** places
and marching in memorial to the gone
express in tears War's great wrong.
Each generation fears their fate
in fields where poppies congregate
for there amongst the fragrant scented flow
Lays the sleep Eternal Knights all know.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:32 PM UTC
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Figures Dance Across My Memory,
In An Erie Ballroom,
Lit Only By The Light Of Vanilla Scented Candles,
The Light Of The Moon And Stars,
Glaring Through Transparent Windows,
Congregate In Creamy Daffodil Colored Flames,
Every Women I've Cried Over,
In Extravagant Ball Gowns,
Stitched With The Misery They Brought Upon Me,
With Them,
Every Man Which I Have Bawled Over,
Wears A Tuxedo,
With A Withered Rose In Their Pocket,
To Symbolize My Pain,
And A Tie Laced With My Own Tears,
The Ballroom Of Horror Caters,
The Party On The Top Floor Too,
Everyone Who Has Made Me Smile,
Dances Erratically,
Singing Along And Laughing,
Though The Demons Beneath Their Feet Houses,
Barbaric--Criminals--Found Guilty Of Heartbreak,
And As They Slow Dance To Rhythmic Beating,
Of A Broken Heart--That May Never Mend,
Something That Rips The Gauze Wrap,
From My Wounds,
They Smile,
As They Masquerade In My Ballroom Of Horror
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
CRIMSON
Colors explode
As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun
Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin
Standing, alone, in a sea of green
Sumac heralds the changing season
And like an artistic wild fire
Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy
Sensing the subtle change
Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling
Meandering through the sumac grove
Make haste of the fading green buffet
Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser
Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep
Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse
Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar
In anticipation of their journey south
In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket
The clock of Mother Earth is precise
And the natural world follows her timely rhythms
As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north
Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river
Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor
Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below
In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy
It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days
Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches
Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window
Stirring Misigami from her reverie
Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her
Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness
Signifying that dreams do come true
And that through the change of seasons
We grow
We become stronger
Wiser
And are given the true gift...of forever being...
...Hopeful
(c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams
i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run
learned nothing in victory
learned nothing in simplicity
complacently
snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs
just relax
mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.
mistakes make us
deliberate chaos
tossed
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings
hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Is it greed, or just a deep sense of self hatred
That drives you
To punish your insides
In such a sadistic manner?
If the body is a temple, then god only knows
What kind of deity you worship.
And if suffering truly is the path to glory
Then your cirrhosed liver will deliver you, surely
To the land of Milk Duds and Honey-O's.
It is not a battle of good versus evil
But of man versus food;
Many are the casualties in this war –
Behold the fallen heroes,
Wearing their purple hardened arteries
Like badges of honour.
A triple heart bypass scar bears testament
To the bravery of these devotees
Who congregate daily at the All-You-Can-Eat.
We gather here today, in this cafeteria,
To witness this formidable challenge,
This ritual of self-desecration,
The stop-watch waiting
To count down the
Seconds
To your sweet salvation.
With eyes glazed over and bated breath
We will watch you eat yourself to death.
A celebration of gluttony,
The sacrificial lamb (and pork, and beef..)
Laid out before you, dripping
Hot sauce and melted mozzarella:
A 10 pound behemoth
That must be slain
In order to ensure victory
And bring you one step closer
To meeting your maker
Bon apetit
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
so what, they're slobs, but at least they're not cannibals... then again, maybe they are too, although i haven't seen it... then again i only write within an empirical disciplination... and i have seen these pecking cannibals... maybe it's an innate feature in all animals, then again these chickens were domesticated, there was no shortage of food, then again maybe it's some version of a religious tendency: translated directly into christianity... poetic cannibalism is not exactly my choice of events that follow a book written by kant; after seeing those chickens cannibalise that head of the sacrificed hen, and sipping the blood, while the head was still agitated into movement by the oozing out of electric currents... you know... i still managed to eat that chicken broth.
i don't understand this critique of pigs...
i have relatives living in the countryside...
and i was once upon a time engaged
in catching a chicken,
and upon the stump of wood
her head was chopped off...
why complain about pigs being "filthy"
when chickens behave like cannibals,
no, actually: chickens are cannibals,
the corpus was taken into the house,
while the remaining chickens sipped,
picked and nibbled the decapitated head
of a chicken to a non-existence...
bewildering, pigs are seen as filthy creatures...
finally, god is the counter-perfectionist
who sees some sort of imperfection
in his lie...
i don't mind a ***** animal...
but i've just seen chickens become cannibals
once one of their own gets its head
chopped off, and they congregate, peck
at the decapitated head and sip pecking
the running blood on the stump of oak...
huh?! pigs are bad...
yeah right... you haven't seen what chickens
do then one of their charles the 1sts gets
the chop.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
Do not shy away
From expressing your feelings
For they are true callings
From the heart waiting for audience
Samaritans are there
In the realm of your positive vibes
Your plea shall reach
Waiting to congregate at the place
Where all souls shall meet
Exchanging each other’s feelings
Emphatic chants of happiness
Shall reverberate everywhere
Outside your realm
True callings will impact the hearts
Which have forgotten to empathize
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Stuck in a rut twenty three feet deep
One for every year I've failed on cue
Dirt falling in at a steady pace
Everyone with their lives figured out
They congregate and tamp down the debris
The possibility of getting out unscathed is that much harder
Looking for hidden optimism somewhere in the dark
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
*keep folding your cool designs
they hold afloat all your dreams
waiting on that raft
to it all*
1.
how I marvel at your vigour to grab any sheet of paper
to create shapes to your fancy
your vision sees further-use in adverts and pamphlets
so creative and undaunted by the wide-ocean
windy-rains may come, whip away your lovely paper-boats
but you set forth fleet-footed in salt-spray
your eyes follow their route on bobbing-smiles
you watch their trail and scout over rocks
yes, they sink soon.. yet, you don't cry
how you run ruddy your cheeks -- oh, how you do inspire!
2.
I didn't mean to silence you
when you sang your song
it's just.. I had a headache
(but you know -- that is poor excuse!)
may the lilt in your voice carry so high
and I pray that grace be mine
when you speak your thoughts
3.
black wings with orange-beaks congregate on the shore
beauty untold when they all take flight
high up in the sky -- what a sight
a flock of blessings in the rain
flying over smiles on paper-boat
*with every flap, thunder rolls its power
and there's little place for lightning to hide
its splendour
it crashes smack-bang within
the silent-blubbering
of sightless-whales*
may dreams land sweetly
and yours..
come true
S T - on 2 march 2014
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Born in the wild
Raised around apes
As they congregate behind the leaves amongst the trees
Sometimes I feel like I don't belong
But there's no way to escape
I'm just another ball
Tethered to this world to be played with
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Who's been lost for awhile
No home to be far from
Traveled a road paved with un proportional tiles
Conceived from of the cracks I slipped through
No concept of the word love
Baptized In the faith of hate
Loneliness a stain on my jeans
Bitterness pokes me when I'm awake
motherless child
Who wasn't pulled out the womb
Unearthed from a tomb
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Melting Sarcoma
Cell Division
Warfare Conjugates a mission
And dares the fates to corrugate
Hurricanes of plated windows reflect as they shatter, their torment, drunken stupor invoked by habit.
They congregate as ashes, winnowing.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".
A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.
Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.
Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.
Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.
A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.
But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?
What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?
Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.
Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***
Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.
Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.
Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.
Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.
Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.
What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
*
I flash seven colors of your LOVE
The rainbow above my sky
Crown over my heart's being
When in your LOVE - I remember
We are so limited in our senses
Forgetting that when are we going to unite
Is just a matter of fate
Because now when we are 1000 miles away
Still at nights - In darkness and loneliness
We are always with each other
Why your LOVE colors are
Jingling bells within my heart beats?
I often gossip with your colors
Intimate musical tunes to your LOVEz
Let me congregate colors of your LOVE
Within a packet of my heart
And return back to you my SOUL
Cognative multi-color spectrum of LOVE
Though I'm not there with YOU right now
My LOVE will remind you of my colors
And like me, YOU too will stay awake
Most nights my BELOVEDz
Every breathe within beats
The timbre of your LOVE
Renders me hopelessly devoted
With your seven colors of LOVE
Always chasing me like a rainbow dew
Outside, within and around me
YOU know...
Now a days I fight with everyone I meet
Many think, I have become arrogant
It is just that I seek perfection
From everyone - to be as "PERFECT" as YOU
Belovedz,
One thing YOU did good to me
Thumb printed my name on
Your blank heart's canvas
To surrender my ETERNITY
That's how...
YOU made me YOURS
Unconditionally forever
So that YOU can
Paint on / in / within me whatever
SOUL-COLORS of your LOVE
Not a single aspect of my life
Is not untouched by your colors of LOVE
We know our LOVE will remain
Existing longer than our life-time
Our glances rains better colors palette
Better than thousand emails, letters, prose & poems
So please do not ever say
I do not know what "OUR LOVE" is
This is what
Remains of YOUR Colors of LOVE in me
*
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.
Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.
Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.
A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.
Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.
The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Nov 27, 2009 at 2:20 PM UTC