White Light

Something Burns in the Night

Blue Sky Calling

Over The Top

Dusty Sky, Dark Days

I've Seen It All

A View From The Bridge

Peace on Earth

Find Our Way To Freedom

Heaven, Have Mercy on Us

Blue Sky Thinking

Morning Splendour

Catch The Rain

Springtide

Fake Plastic Trees

To Go Home

Light and Shadow

To The Moon

Moon River

~ 384,403 km from the Earth, yet still striking to those who see it.

This Weather

~Snow, Wind, Rain, Sleet and Sun

As someone said to me today, at least it gives us something to talk about.

Makes beautiful images too.

Something Burns in the Heart

~ If I could stay...
Then the night would give you up
Stay...and the day would keep its trust
Stay...and the night would be enough

Faraway, so close
Up with the static and the radio
With satellite television
You can go anywhere

Oh, to travel.

A Summer Wasting

~ It's a crisis I know
At the end of the show
People change but we don't falter
Cause we know love is real
This is no place to shiver
So get up off the grass
You were once the main attraction
but all that's in the past

Agricultural heritage.
Our remnants remain in the place they were in the past.
Beautiful.

Run Wild

~ On the steps of the Valley of the Fallen, the 'great' memorial/mausoleum to Spanish Fascist leader Franco. Shrouded in mist, it is a place of great mystery, and misery - it was built by force: the losers of the Spanish Civil War, the Republicans were punished by being forced to construct the monument.

Down The Road

~And so I came to this dream-like place
But I can’t remember how
Our lives just break open in front of us

Echo of Memory

The Music We Are

Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.

~Mawlānā Jalāl-ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī

Shamelessly copied from 'So Many Books'