Commence the dance of bloom and blossom, a spring in every step. The fall of yesteryear forgotten, those orange tears were laid to rest where rotting memories shall reside; the compost of the mind.

I long for days I can’t remember, when fair was fair and fair the weather. But now the trees stand nakedly and wilting to their tapered dream. Come blossom dance, help me forget, with Spring in every step.

Swift as a breath drawn in quick cos of fear, light as if winged with a breeze, sharp as the path, created by He; the diamond-cut rider. No swifter, no lighter, no sharper a rider than He.

Born like the sunrise beyond the horizon, lives like a comet in flight, journeys the worlds, no place left unseen. The all-knowing rider. No purer, no greater, no wiser a rider than He.

Swift as a breath beyond the horizon, lives as if winged with a breeze, sharp as the path, no place left unseen; no purer, no lighter.

Born like the sunrise drawn in quick cos of fear, light like a comet in flight, journeys the worlds, created by He; no swifter, no greater, no sharper, no wiser, no more knowing or free;

the diamond-cut rider is He.

Fall on me or cut right through me, smile at me or try to show me what it is you have to hide. Confide in me, you telling eyes.

Enlighten me or puzzle me, engage with me or punish me. I only know what I have heard; be straight with me, you riddled words.

Reach for me, let go of me, be kind to me or cruel to me. I fear I’ll never understand the truth behind those shaking hands.

The cobbled path, my path to home, the pitter-pat of rain on stone, the knotted door, the worn-out brass, the loggy thump, the denting rasp.

The soggy mat, inside at last, the beaten windows, rain on glass, the water boiled, the gentle fire, the padded chair will host retire.

The mâchéd news, words laced with rain; at least the sport has gone unscathed. The Grandfather’s Grandfather’s Grandfather’s clock; past resonates through tick n’ tock.

And so I give you my evening scene: a man, his house n’ a cup of tea. The steamy sweetness warms my heart, and, as evening fades, my thoughts depart.

Moleskine in palm; its crude appearance wears timelessly, and yet but eighteen years have worn creases in mine.

Patternless cover; the simplicity disguises the complexity within, for true beauty lies beneath the skin.

L’Plume in hand; its wordy purpose so full of blotted potential, like the creative finger I never had.

Emerald-green, gold-nibbed and poised with majesty. A ceremonial gesture, chosen with care.

Poet in thought. Words come and go, abundantly so, but few seem worthy of the page.

And so the naked canvas; to be purchased by fools who wish to admire something more thoughtless than they.