Walking May Walking the flower garden, this opening of spring, listening to birdsong, the wind and trees that sing, for the sky is so blue a blessing this May, for June is approaching and summer will be here For ever and more. For Today. Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p1964km@googlemai...

Spring in the Garden of May. Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p1964km@googlemail.com

Even if I… Even if the sun, I feel were blind, I would like to hold your face in the quiet of my hands, and trace just once, my fingers upon the tributaries and streams, of the life that has become the beautiful you, to feel a thousand stories, journeys and emotions, joining a stream, a flow, of stars, to a river of journeys, that I cherish in wonder that I feel, in the music of...

For if there is, truly, a Spring in winter let me drink then, deeply of your beautiful eyes to see the dawn of morning blue, for laughter is the sunlight of March that rises, beautifully in the blossom of life that is simply being and walking, the path with you. Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p1964km@googlemail.com

They He pulled. Felt her hand in his. Remembering her taste. Her smell. The way her body cleaved into his. His into hers. Mustiness. Earth. Wonder. Urgency. The earth crumbled around him. It matted his arms, legs and lower back. His hair. His beard. He sat up. Felt the dull ache, the throb of life to be given fill his awakening being with her. To her. She could see him now. Lifting himself out of sleep. His own dream wrapped around him. She relea...

February Afternoon The sun sets long shadows, cast the distance upon the broken garden wall But amongst the cracks, the silence, beneath the settling dusk of late afternoon A blackbird sings, his voice catching my tears one by one as softly, gently the rain begins to fall. Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p...

S(he) He was awakening. The stiffness of sleep held him tight within its arms. The winter stars were wrapped in sheathes of time about his legs and lower body. From somewhere outside of himself he could feel a growing sense of urgency. A warmth. A remembering. He needed to remember. Wanted to remember. But a great fog of darkness still held him. Whispered to him. Wanted him to remain within it. Somewhere. Somewhere. ‘Here.Here.’ He could sense his own voice outside of himself. A movement beyo...

She (1) She was not sure when it started. A cold day perhaps. Long shadows. Early evening. She could feel in her memories the wind blow cool from the mountains around the valley. A shiver of possibilities across the lengthening dusk. Maybe it was then. When the first stars blinked across the skies, the first street lights flickered and then failed. ‘Yes. Perhaps it was then,’ she thought to herself. She closed her eyes. Lay still and quiet. Felt once again, the first time it touched her. Fi...

A Sleepy Summer Afternoon It’s a lazy, sleepy afternoon, the villages are empty, flowers, in colours of summer, curtsy and nod in the baking sunlight, radiating off walls and shimmering rooftops, and, as if uplifted, a single buzzard flies and swoops overhead. It’s so warm, the distance is translated, from far and away, to the here and now: a band of light above the winding ro...

She could see their forms shiver and shimmy. She stepped closer. Her self belief was not unsurprised by what she was seeing: two people bound together by time, place-and not a little love. The wind whispered again, hushing her doubts aside as she stepped closer towards them. She could see through their opaqueness: the edge of the lagoon, and the grey-blue waters still and quiet under a fresh western sky. Beyond, and stretching behind them, was the beach itself, like a great arm separati...

She turned and walked back from the beach. Everyone had long since gone. The storm had passed, the skies were clear once again, and the wind had settled into restful sighs across the silver birches. The trees were still and yet crooked, bent and twisted with their boughs and branches in repose after surviving another bout with the seasonal storms that raced up this battered coast. The path was small, she had not taken the tourist one, the direct route, instead she followed the su...

He paused, scratched his head with his pen, as if to recall something he had forgotten ‘…and,’ he stuttered,‘something has turned up at the church, over the last few months, we’ve had reports of moving lights at night. Youths probably, come down from the caravan park, drinking, playing ghosts, larking around.’ She turned fully and looked him directly in the face. ‘He is young, almost too young to keep the law, never mind enforce it,’ she thought to herself ‘Is there a connection? ...

Kent The cherry blossom fell, along the garden paths, and upon others, that lay, still, quiet and hidden, among the thickening shadows, beneath the stretching hands of trees. For he walked, slowly now, remembering footsteps of those who walked with him, upon evenings, like this one, warmth in the heart of sunlight, his treasure of life this time, and memo...

A fist of leaves For is not time dawn itself? Having shaken the stars from a now empty sky, she now races to catch the night before the call of day, dancing, skipping, gathering the shadows fleeing before her catch, her catch gathered in a bag, in fists of leaves and abandoned trees, the rooftops reflect and mirror the first touch of sunlight, the slow rise of breakfast fires, the first call and echo of the last of black and birds, singing loud and brightly, the night reclining to a lulling ...

The helicopter flew low, hovering above the breaking tide. The ship was a bleached skeleton of former seaworthiness. Fragments of sail and broken masts, collapsed and shattered, lay at broken angles and forgotten shapes, upon the seaweed and barnacle encrusted former deck. The press had long since left. Leaving a sense of puzzlement and cheapness amongst the temporary beach combers. They grouped and haggled along the retreating tide, looking for meaning and hidden discoveries in the centuries...

The Wasp It’s colder now, wings heavy, skies too grey for warmth life, and blossom, and still the wasp moves, struggling in spluttering steps across the broken stones. The fruits have fallen, time and leaf lie together, upon the frozen, naked ground. And though summer has passed away, and the dark is growing, through the clouded broken glass, I can still see the garden, the empty hands of abandoned trees, the colours of spring, piled amongst rope, recognition and roots. The broken fe...

War is and coming, a thunder-scratch across humanity’s eye Evil rises, the black hooded horror of blindness an endless serpent swallowing, screaming death no more Ravens circle, life. ravenously Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p1964km@googlemail.com

The Meadow A meadow full of memories, the faded colours of summer, rest upon the skeletal hands and leaves, for summer whispers to autumn: ‘For now is here, take this, my time away, for I wish not yet for Spring, for fall and sleep I must, to dream again come May.’ Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback! p1964km@go...

Here He somehow felt the woman sag aside him. Heard a sigh of incredulity and the dull low growl of the two dogs, as he himself turned and looked for himself in the direction of the storm. Then ‘It is done,’ Emily whispered, exhausted into his ear. Her voice as far away as the time he’d left behind.’The rest will come back upon the next tide- and then all will be counted upon the last of waves.’ She lowered her head still further and sobbed against his chest. Here There was a ship. With ba...

This is a place of slow time, with a sky that reaches above a sudden, empty wind, with the hidden stars, turning beacons of light upon eons of eternity, above the pointing fingers of an ancient forest, and below, amongst the leaves and acorns, amongst the lengthening shadows of the last emptiness of summer days, there lies a small cup of life and this time, this now, is placed upon the cut branches of a broken tree. The cup is made out of wood, and yet it is transparent somehow, and through t...