The smell of the woods in summer, a sweetness as though each branch had been coated in honey.

Contrast to - the anxieties which eat away at me at night, so that sometimes I feel I might scream if I do not move -

Yet there is the urge to be still, to be still enough to reach my soul out to the entire world.

Silence enough to hear the world - All the creatures shrieking their own tunes - trilling, croaking, buzzing, desperate, lonely, proud, joyous - all the voices overlapping, yet on such a day all seem to join in praising the kindness of the sun, the richness of the earth and the cool caress of the air.

The bees are working furiously today, as I laze about watching. What they must think of me!

Days like these are gentle and kind, but there is still something waiting - some unresolved anxiety - an is what I most need to rid myself of - the feeling that something more must be done, completed or accomplished, before the living can really begin.

A grandmother stooped in blue hat and coral clamdiggers taking her overweight grandchildren for a stroll. They slump and pout and talk about ice cream as she looks about.


They pass, and the creatures remain unconcerned. 


Who is it, speaking now? There is a shrill conversation, a single screech on each side, one tree to another - you come here! No, you come here!. Anda few intruders trying to raise their voices above the repetitive back and forth. It continues, dying down gradually like two young siblings who have lost the heat of the argument and fade to the occasional mumbled "did not" and "did too". 

Rediscovered, from 2009

Steadily the wind blows,
blows the mountain down. 

In the days that came before
we loved and lost and won and wept
We ran through the seas and sauntered through the heavens
Dreams glittered in our flying footsteps
Like fairies then, at certain moments, 
when the evening crept across just before
we were called in to supper. 

Steadily the wind blows,
blows the mountain down.

A touch, the softest touch, a tickle down the spine. 
Hair rough in the wind's caress, lips chapped and dry. 
The skin that comes alive at once. 
The skin we ignore, day in day out, at once a magic
mysterious show, the richest dream, the tremor of galaxies

Steadily the wind blows, 
blows the mountain down. 

Quietude comes in the evening hours, haunting and sad. 
Memories drift through the songs of birds and crickets. 
Where was that moment,
where the colours of the world transformed,
that gasping gripping flash of perfect transcendency - 
Just gone? Perhaps, again
the song of the wind and the song of the years
will find a perfect harmony.

The river that freezes never is still,
the heart that is stone can beat at will. 

Steadily the wind blows, 
blows the mountain down.