Read

Still trying to write every day, achieving it thus far.

Read

Last Friday I sat,
bind outstretched,
fore edges exposed
to the grass and her dew,
top a hill, beyond cows
where rain fluttered gentle
on the gutters of a green lane,
each one has a ring to it
as if uttering your name

and I allowed my spirit unfurl,
rest even, toes
outstretched above the lines
of oaks,
and short sprouts
of nettle, thistle, vine.
The river flooded,
wept into marshland,
mire stained the boot.
I didn't mind,
walked on a mile,
perhaps three,
through woodland and fieldrows,
down track cut from stone,
paths paved in gravel

and I let gravity know me -
that I, and this, couldn't be
without you -
that the sky that is kissed
savagely by an oil painter
could not be so pale
nor dusky blue.
Gratitude isn't always
sung to a microphone,
not always dragged out
in conversation in a bar
but is almost always
whispered,
tenderly woven,
in the threads of books,
perhaps never to be read.