I can but dream and lost it seems I find her ever essence

And at this time perhaps she dreams as well?

Though I would but ever wish to wonder

I must not never pry or plunder

Though longing as a feather falls

Yet not to land but gather all

The wind once more beneath it's plight

Again as one as song in flight

I pray she tender somehow knows

Our love may be if but she blows

A gentle kiss upon the breeze

A feather falls for her to keep.

(Re-edited)

Just below the surface, and when I look in to the landscape of myself, sometimes I find a spring that seems to burble up from the bottom of a lost and lonely valley.

Here, within this realm it is moonlit grey, though perhaps it's just before the break of day upon a winter's morning, and perhaps the dawn is upon it's way.

I glance about; there are rocks that bare from the side of the hill with moss and lichens adorning them, and between them grow the occasional fern and other little plants whose names I do not know, and there is always the velvety moss that seems so wonderfully blanketed everywhere.

The trees stand tall upon the hillsides, they are not in leaf, but at rest it seems, and I haven’t seen a bird here, but I have heard them gently singing perhaps as if to welcome the dawn again to this lost little valley in the very essence of my being.

The ever spring water trickles quite aimlessly after it has risen, until whisperingly it becomes a little narrow stream.

Here, there are small fish that dart about in the cold water, seeking food, seeking safety, and seeking to welcome another spring, to mate, and to pass on their precious lives once more.

Perhaps I await as they, and perhaps it is spring within her winter sisters realm, dreaming amidst the mists that gather at the far end of the valley that I have glimpsed.

Yet I do not call out to her, as that I feel may be crass in some way.

Sometimes though, when I am not even here, I long most willingly to embrace her, to nurture and to be nurtured, and then as hand within a hand for us to follow the little stream in a new found togetherness, and to travel around the rivers many meanders through a summer's realm to where the river broadens, and all becomes autumnal.

Here golden leaves escort us on the river as we flow to meet the sea, where we are within a winter’s realm again, and where we may leave our final footprints upon the strangeness of snow along the beach as a gift to the changing of the ever tides.

Rainbows Grace.

A Rainbow graces the sky yet ever fades away. When they are with us they are very beautiful, even if they are born of many tears.

I Like My Clock!

I like my clock

It does not tick

It does not tock

It stays there most un woundly quizzled

Ceased at five to nine.

Upon my Train Journey I Became.

As momentarily real as the shadows cast dancing on the platform by the trees leaf bare, yet warming as the low bright sun 'midst the clear crisp late Autumns air.

As far as the mountainous clouds gathered above the distant sea,

and as near as the fellow passengers that sat all around me.

Perhaps I shall travel this way again.

Though I shall wait, and I shall see.

And I shall become no doubt as many things in between.

A Blank Page.

Today was a blank page, and so very beautifully so.

That is, until I spoilt it by expression.

For I need to learn that sometimes the snow is far better left un-trodden, and that a clear cool pond is better left un-rippled.

Stream arise from high hill sides
Over spilling
Flowing wild

Creativity does not belong to me.

Sometimes things just flow, or build up, and like a safety valve fortunately they blow.

Other times and maybe they seem somehow just to grow, or some little spark just makes it happen, or somehow makes things so.

It's highly self indulgent, yet that's the way it goes, as something that has blossomed seems often seeks to show.

After all, tis only some expressions felt and tainted by a soul, whilst passing on a moments whim a glimpse that's seen for all.

And pieces from a hearts belief that all hearts beat as one, whilst everything does nurture seek and seeks to nurture on.

And thoughts are of the making, lead to action Karma's song.

May we dare to dream of innocence, and may love for all belong.