The world is a flash of colors
Red, Blues, Greens
All merge
To paint a beautiful symphony
A blotchy canvas to the naked eye

Figures shift in and out of view
All different, all colorful
Focus, unfocus
Nothing is clear
Colors, sights, sounds
A whirlwind of blurs and blobs

Focus, unfocus, focus
Focus until the picture is clear
Focus until faceless shapes become more
Focus until the world is alive

Pristine colors fill perfect lines
Shapes morph into objects
Colors become one
Figures breath life
Everything is clear

So clear
Nothing is left unseen
Every inch, nook, and cranny
Exposed
Dragged into the light

Every imperfection
Every little blemish
Every disgusting speck
Magnified
The picture focuses into full view

But I prefer to be blind

As the night the day grew colder then ice
White powdery stuff began to form from the sky
Big snowflakes began to fall
Oh so pretty as children play, having a ball
The beauty of nature has turned everything white
As the snow softly is falling throughout the day to night
Some people are happy as other are filled with fright
As the first snowfall of the year looks so peaceful and nice
Turning everything around us a soft, pure white..

Darkness stretches on
For an eternity
Vast blackness
Fills my vision

A star appears
A bright speck in the night
Casting shadows
In my dark world

Illuminating corners in my soul
Mixing grey and white
Fading into black
Darkness, washing into the edges

But the star just stays there
Its elusive glow
Never ending, never changing
A tiny fleck

Always there
Yet so far away
Just out of my reach
Grazing my fingertips

I long to be closer
To hold it, to feel its warmth
I want to capture this light
And never let go

But the stars stays there
Shining bright and bold
No reason or rhyme
Unaware of my desire

Burning bright
Spreading its warmth
Emanating its soft glow
For all to gaze

If only that star shone for me

Am
Watching the television
she came from kitchen
snatched my remote and
Switched off the TV...
after few minutes
She was like..
disturber caught in the disturbance...

to befriend death would seem wise
to welcome what will inevitably be.
Death is not so frightening, its even
difficult to know the actual moment,
the moment when someone finally
succumbs to deaths unrelenting,
all encompassing grip. Death,
the swallower of all histories, all
persons connect with ancestry. A
finality built into birth, part of the
deal. The part most mysterious.

Pilgrimage Along the A1

From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last.

And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow.

That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay.

In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries hidden long, and sealed.

And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares.