There are times,
When he can catch his breath,
When his heart isn’t batter-hammering
Inside his chest,
Inside his brain,
That he can believe the lies:
That he is gaining on the familiar figure
Disappearing through the doors,
Ahead, frustratingly just beyond recognition;
That he can decide whenever he wants
To stop running;
Work-a-day sun high burnin’
Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;
Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’
Becoming familiar, restful, old.
Harvest hopes answered
Ripening to warm-honey gold:
Friends will always know each other –
If their stories be honestly told –
That distance and language matter not
When time and hearts be weighed and sold.
- Ironbridge (scotlandtodalaman.wordpress.com)
- Coalport China Museum, Shropshire (comestepbackintime.wordpress.com)
- Busy as an Archaeological Bee (ironbridgecommunityarchaeology.wordpress.com)
It was, truly, nothing
When I began – mere
Automatic scribble –
Then suggestions began
To surface, gasping,
Grasping for recognition.
Now, is it a
Saucer or a jet-wing?
You would think I should know;
The pencil is in my hand
After all …
But, still I hesitate;
My fingers begin
To twitch again.