My westward paths by muddied fields,
The leaves turn amber panes in light,
Come displaced windows of stained glass,
Speak glory in a holy field.

The sky is kissed with sunflower,
Leaving the faintest scent yellow,
All pensive greys to mark the hour,
Here ink is spilt to swarming dreams,
The ebbing tongues of starlight tower,
On river's folds in lucid ebony.

The wake of open fields lies deep behind,
Wide sparsity swept in tended lilies,
These paths with you lie thickening with words,
For on your garden paths I have found ease,
Not of the brittle kind but ringing true,
Like through the fear all curiosity,
Like through tired eyes all life's abundant joys,
Like this the deepest solace within pain,
Like this the firmest purpose within toil.

The weakened root up thin,
Distrusts the gorgeous day,
Which drives from all the weariness,
It's rounded rhyme in rays,
It is too stuck in soil,
Too marred in the decay,
But so it comes a pilgrim,
To make a meager way.

Make precious light on spires beside,
A flock between the yellow bricks,
O wind's ascent and longing stride,
Up to and heavenward the kick,
For much a man is his long gaze,
Which rightly sits along the flight,
To higher things and then perhaps,
His stature here below the heights.

Leaving lines implicit in the barest greens,
And all my handiwork is there to fade,
Into the background but yet less,
Amidst the creeping things.
Among the silent gains upon the buttress of the sky,
Till all is naught and tall reeds lie:
My lines so fairly gone.

The moon in sheepish yellows,
Like a button pokes half through,
The swirling cloud become a garb,
The shadows drawing wisps into a hem,
I see the evening air is clothed,
That's good. The eves grow chilly as we slip,
Into the colder months.

Oh the misty way, begotten of stars,
Like some ephemeral silver, dancing.
The moon is hung somewhere obscure,
The peering stars are few between the clouds,
And the shadows lie still in deep ditches.
The air is so heavy that it's light,
Caught up in all this fuzzy floating,
Falls down to butterfly kisses on the ground,
It seems to hardly greet the grass.

Oh the crystal grass and more outside blue,
So round and full impress upon the mind,
And so in drops of preformed ink,
Crushed down into a heady-scented page,
A brilliant man makes busy the inner sight,
He talks long and sideways in so real a speech,
Down through the winding ducts of culture,
Through a shelf and hands and heady-scented page,
Reaching one who walks gingerly upon his dreams.

O elevated sky - the dazzle and the brilliance,
The lilting lilac to the sunflower spills,
All cast on steely teal of brooding cloud,
What fine descent as though a crown on weary heads below,
Such light to fascinate falls on a cross,
A quiet field 'neath spire embodied praise,
The grave is still as on all fine autumnal eves tonight,
The beauty harrows in the death. O man,
O man, o finite child, go on, go on,
Remember that your time falls weakly on the earthen stage,
That you are dust and yet so saved,
That you are fleeting yet so clothed,
In robes imperished sewn from liquid gold and strength etern',
O man, take heart, the light shines even on the quiet fields.

Away in hills.
How much I long to find in steps
The pace of unpent thought,
Some kind of room to breath
In every truer sense than flesh,
Darling oak and little stream,
Such quiet beauty stirs the loves,
You are the backdrop of my way,
You are the lodge of weary souls,
For you are whiff and shadow of The Great:
The gentle one who walks in all my ways,
Who knows me and draws out my every song.

My face in foamers' disarray,
Breaks on the sand so sparsely speckled,
Dancing polygons ever in collapse,
Like mirrors of a muddy thought,
Like all the breaking waves of unchecked hearts,
Why must it be so straight when I am else,
Why others shall I feel so cloudless clear,
Except on rainy days when I am poorly wet.

Why, a billow by the breach,
The sternly waves don't pace,
Nor let up but for breath,
Marked out in quite the slight-
-Ly violent crashing just abated,
Then loosely strewn all white decays,
Become the folly of the wind,
The carry-on to their beholden rocks,
Their final seat if not for such a breach,
And tameless tumble in a shocking stream,
Back to the mountain feet from whence they come.

Beneath the misty front,
All swirls to seize the dying day,
The sound of waves comes dry upon the ears,
It tumbles over self,
And clumsy through the lovely rain,
And layers to its fall like threading rice,
The pitter to the patter making friends,
These little sounds all peak above their ranks,
To find a symphony and glorious song.

Lady Luna dressed in ocean robes,
It's foamy breakers frill the every fold,
Now lace then thickly new replace,
With marble ripples in the blue.

On circuits thrash such seaward beasts,
So stormstruck turned upon the shores,
And all the open maw is stretching sea,
Such life in every quaking strike,
Such beauty in the breadth,
When all is frantic winds the heart erupts.

To be devoured in the sound of rain,
All cracks and squeaks fall deafly by,
A peace in ruling ruined noise,
The harrowed king of such a world shot through,
With pieces of the sky turned crystal tears.

There's much more beauty in each inch,
All stars that hide behind each wistful cloud,
All birds that nest amidst the emerald leaves,
All blades that fill the sight with far more detail that it knows,
The time is too wonderfully slow.
The afternoon just barely drawing breath,
What a time to remake friends.

A wizened call on dusty winds,
Something of the soot of day falls heavily,
And all is silver roads and obsidian walls,
Dressed up in nocturne melodies, what grace!
It is a mystical thing to hear such songs,
Yet hardly parse their regal countenance.

A coliseum of trees looms regal and imposing,
Their give to slip within a breeze,
Their hands to hold each strand of fire,
Gold-laced and burdening the air,
Their sterness overleans into tranquility,
Bastions on the hills come watchmen of a gentry garden pool.

A land of pastel bricks and verdant green,
The streets are wash with nonchalance,
Roads which seem so sparse and somehow thin,
From birdlike view like scalpels cut:
So roman through the hills and plains.

The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.

The golden light mounts thick on evening haze,
In parting leaves and comely wheat, the world,
And all between sits overbrimming full.
The beauty of the winking hour's flush,
Falls like a fever in the early spring,
So hot and freezing cold - why must it end when I begin?
Why does the beauty fade so soon?
Why do such beauties flame in gold?
Why would it ever soot or snuff or fall to stagnant coals?
O You unfaded light and golden days!
How could You let these fall to deepest night,
But I have seen your grace, though it dismays.
I will lift up Your praise, O faithful light,
So merciful and glorious, what love,
His arm ever outstretched though we despise.

Embattled in a seagull's cry,
Land of the broken and the free,
The clouds cling lightly on the edge,
Of calm horizons stretching to all spans.

Quaint streams and quiet stumps lie down in peace,
Bask in the open heights of canopies,
They've leant against the sky to hide from all,
The busyness and noisy streets.

Coastal ways make running paint,
A mural smeared through breaking pace,
The land and sea all fall to gorgeous colour,
Holding but a semblance of their passing form.

And here as colours run, we meet,
Pure strangers who we seek to be,
With some kind of passing form in sight,
A light for them. A colour and a love.

Coming here the landscape starkly changed,
All thistles brew and boil between the times,
The trees drag on in gnarly obstinance,
They're beautiful though hardy in the breeze.

Light crackles hitch to rain,
They punctuate a crispened air,
And eve is freshly made anew,
Left with the marks of very God.

Contraheavenly the synthetics rise,
Hardy scarabs defiant flies,
So poised against the sky's rebuke,
They teem with animating life,
Though they themselves sit hollow in their ranks.

Departing from The Lakes I leave enrapt,
These gentle monarchs in heather fitted,
So kissing every blushing sky they fall,
Upon the napes of clouds with deepest care.

By fabric chairs on dewy grass,
The brittle air pervades from high,
Unfolding from mounting forests,
Arrayed in pews like earnest choirs,
The morning sun burns fiercely as they rise,
Theirs is the birdsong ushering the day.

The hushed shivers of windswept trees,
Become a distant patter on the grass,
Like all such layering applause,
The many sounds transcend their frailer frames,
Again become so highly changed,
Harsh knocks to calm in shadows of great hills.

The ripples of the land make for,
Old glacial keepsakes. Tiding from,
An age when giants walked the plains,
When iron roots splayed out beneath,
Not irrigating clouds but fierce,
Despotic tides in centenary march.

The heavens' treasuries are bust,
Unseamed they spill twice over all,
So formless lose all measure of restraint,
And we are made too rich.

Violent winds and smokey skies,
Become a fated audience above,
The unmoved hills which fix themselves,
A sliver of the starlight for a coat.

At moment ceaseless drops take pause,
In time for all the whispers of the trees,
The sky too stills like unpolished marble,
I find in it a simple peace.

The violet and the rose,
Play lazy checkers on the evening air,
Slur moves into great lunging arcs,
'Tween peaks of stalwart slate,

The belly of the rolling hills,
Lies flat to frame the setting sun behind,
What glory in a scene,
What majesty at play.

The golden eye's descent in awe,
To watch the swallowed world in black,
Becomes exalted tiger quieting,
The haze. Setting the limit of shadows,
Who will hold it fast? Who will stay its sight?
Who will draw the limit on its awe,
Blunt claws to make of it a watchman?
Surely there descends a greater gaze,
Commanding the deep hidden awe,
Subsuming every cosmic dance,
Transcending every light until it dwells in each.

Walking upon the boundary plane,
The sublimation of grass to sky,
And all its losing of itself,
It's hue and vibrance traded,
In turn such boundlessness,
Which rushes deeply into fields
Of green, inhabiting the yellow
Flowers on the edge between.

The corner of a gorgeous sky,
Makes for a loud presence in view,
Calling for a cease and merry gaze,
Dancing in such vibrant blue,
The forever call and ceaseless glory,
Drips off the corner to man's seat below,
Calls him to contemplate that mighty fellow.

The clouds stall at the withered scene,
Such aching loneliness in death:
A husk erect in verdant seas,
Still hung but standing on its brittle roots,
Like driftwood scorched amidst a churning swell,
Like hellish flames upon a boat,
Yet surely in its timely fell,
Will many little ones find life.

And so they have.

I find a kind of jolly light,
Which rolls amidst full clouds,
Which falls gently on every shade,
Of green upon the earth,
They fanning frame a hot pink rose,
A crowning jewel that begs a double take.

A dashing toad in wily grass,
Sunbeaten striking up a deal,
The journey has been hardy far,
But now to dwell in underoots,
Feasting upon the blasted pests,
Which scourge the shallow greens and then,
To rest at every corner of the field.

Red petals flock unceasing to,
The unquelled gash upon the heart,
All this poured out and rashly spent,
Though I am lighter by a measured glass.
Scarlet carnations bloom.

By rolling clouds and ruggard grass,
The early summer heats on breezes pass,
The yellow and the evergreen,
Like deep wind-chimes whistle at this bright scene,
So howling ever as it comes,
An eager herald to Aeolus' runs,
A sturdy bench for such a time,
Seats two's unyielding passage into life,
To gaze upon our youth and trials ahead.

The hidden way by dusty trees and gates,
Encumbered seas of wafting leaves it waits,
Gently, the patter of the rain falls dear,
Drawn heavy on the branches rings out clear,
The time becomes so delicate and faint,
A pale sky and a hazy afternoon,
Without much doing it comes calm and quaint.

Pink petals mourn the flowing fount,
Leave hollowed husk to fill again,
With sacred velvet born from life,
To death with wit's false hope it bleeds the same,
Rose carnations bloom.

Pink petals crown the leaking heart,
So summoning from shallow wounds,
The direst pain. To barely bear,
A naked flame in passing hours,
Rose carnations bloom.

White petals fluster at the breast,
Opens a mortal wound - becries,
The great descent into cold flame,
So beckoning the year a test,
Pale carnations bloom.

O birdsong on the morning wind, how I
missed you. You gracious bells, and pleasant chimes,
You stage of love and strife and wittering,
When times were no less simple still, but I
a simpler man, a boy in homely fields,
You come to me again when without sleep,
I come to you again when strange dreams writhe,
Afresh, I'm human in His light and song.

Droplets on the glass descend,
Tell a tired tale too told,
But perhaps it is for good?

Their transience is spent in wealth,
Prismatic they do taste each hue,
Put on the storied melodrama,
Of cozy days and soulful tunes.

Heavensent they fall, earthen pull the skies,
Entwined in shiny reveries they make,
The feuding brothers meet.

The full moon in withered beauty,
Upon the evening pales,
Becomes the sweetest anemone,
Drawn weakly from its flight,
The day remains in blue.

Cobbled walls made much in time,
A violet ring inscribes,
Laid still beside the grazing harts,
Which drift to long shadows,
The counterpoint to her white radiance.

The way of quiet clouds,
And homage of the muddy hills,
Humanity affirmed in slower days,
Though every tremor of the haste,
Lays close beside the resting heart,
It is a strength one does not have,
And so must humbly ask for peace.

The tumble of butterflies,
Ever to soothe a hasted mind,
When all the noise is borne under the sun,
In their wild frantic dance of beauty,
Of colour and haphazard dives.

The fall of worlds and folding into one,
Swift threads of glass make all a fragile loom,
Busybodied to the heights they run,
So meeting every elegance with gloom.

The evening sun does lazy glance - a side
Glance dragging all the outside world through the
Old sagging glass, which through it brushes wide,
Into acrylic peaks and dimples painterly.

The world is washed in veiled light's malaise,
The shadows of a broad humanity,
Find archetypes so deep within a phrase,
An integrated loss beside a triumph lofty.

The spatter of a dying amber lines
The gold. And starkly in the setting sun,
A play, a dance of melody, the games,
Too dear to be confined to meagre words.

Something about the death in life,
Passing petals waning fanfare,
To the harmony of soft frames,
Robed in light wreathed in green,
The trees look young in their old age.

A carefree day in many words,
Much speaking turns into hearing,
Much hearing to a short reply,
A short reply to lengthy trails:
Out through the misty hills,
Among stark streams and evergreens,
Besides the clamour of the birds,
By falling petals and young shoots,
To fig and empty court. My prayer -
That it would be a seed by grace.

The shards of fallen sky avail themselves,
Raving beasts to dine upon the tumult,
With roars and bursts of light are torn in rage,
Fall upon the napes of trembling trees,
Clatter to the unmoved earth -
Impotent, they are subsumed.

Wilting petals strewn among the slabs,
Swiftly on, the world in marching green,
Turns away, shreds charred-purpled tears,
Breaks the silence for the laughter of birds.

Radiant streets are emerald at once,
The frailties stagnation left to thaw,
Its place the darling stone is clothed again,
High arches with cascade wisteria,
Your streets are full and radiant great ox,
A glory lent and spent that you would turn,
To your first love, your strength and founding light.

Escape to tulip fields,
A gentle sea of watercolour bulbs,
The depths in inky blue,
The heights a sunset multitude.

Radiant Luna established at the foot,
Of Sol's unmoving throne. Dressed in,
His fallen robes, the glory shared,
Pale Lady holding watch of night:
Ambassador and precious child,
Pulled up into the fragrance of the stars.

Walking quiet country fields,
Soft shades in polished greens,
The limit of the trees bleeds out,
An elevated blue to brave the sun.

Unfettered in a bird's-eye flight,
Gliding to the corners of the earth,
To see the familiar and the strange,
Large seas of tarmac, rusting ribs of buried titans,
Multiplexing circuits carved upon the plains,
Turning back to rugby fields and cordoned woods,
To yawning Sussex arching on the Downs.

Cresting a familiar hill,
A land far drawn away from waning time,
An outpost in a churning sea of change,
The stones peak slightly more into a toothy smile,
The grass retreating like a parting beard,
Rolling underneath a sky reshuffled,
Molding to a slightly warbled shape,
Here when big and small, when cold and hot,
When sprinting and when hobbling.

Confronted with a lofty ray,
Tugging out all nascent life,
From buds and verdant fields afresh,
The air is elevated at its coming,
The golden hues so tender pull
The truest colours of the reeds,
And dance in robes of white on gentle streams.

Running out of words,
I find myself in open meadows,
Spacious in the fallen chatter's echo,
The air is richer with sole babbling streams.

How one longs for friendship without words,
Yet prattles on in fear and harsh forgetting,
That good company not chatter is a blessing,
That to be known - to walk beside,
Continues where mere words can hardly dream.

Grim-golden gates embroider hems of shadow,
The cavity laid slick upon the grass,
Receding up queer mottled stairs,
To hide from every fury of the stars.

Sunny lives on rainy days,
Giggles of a couple waltz by ornate gates,
Common friends at pace in gentle patter,
Off to business of the smiling sort,
In much learning and exploring,
Tribute to the tender humming of the clouds.

The gentle shakes of sunlight,
Land impotent on a sleepy cobble,
Tinting blue within a breeze,
At once laid thickly golden on the lamp posts,
The path draws starkly by the trees,
Embellishing a history with passers-by upon their roots.

Nothing left to mask a sleepy face,
Lit up with few too hours of the day,
When talking walks along to silence:
A pretty bench among the bluebells,
Dressed in drooping branches and their newborn leaves,
It's final solace where it cease to simply watch.

Step beside meandered streams,
In its tumble down old mercury's track,
A bowing breeze turns all to walking pace,
The pretty worlds is frozen still,
To frame the fawn among the reeds,
To halt the heavens through the trees.

The world in focus stirs the heart,
Each crystal edge fitted with the rays,
It gleans and litters on the street,
They light the tumbling colours of the crowds,
That bob along sandstone canals,
To see the morning light on ancient bricks,
To race the birds to fragrant soil and work the earth.

You're the colour on a rainy day,
The bismuth lining every drop,
The strength for weary eyes,
So I can rest my heart and finally stop,

In striving and in solitude,
My confident, my friend,
My intercessor, advocate,
Draw me always back to mend.

Splayed hands in biting cold,
Gesture to the deepened night,
Half-finished tales are told,
Weaving through the banter light,
So soon the round devolved,
To spattered words at every sight,
And blinking you step out the fold,
To some lesser silence in warm company.

Walking in cold winter spells,
The world to silence fell.
Rustles in the mid-morn breeze,
Were scarcely met with chiming bell,

To every eye a glance and step,
A time for each I haven't kept,
But now I see at every breath,
There ever is a time by grace to turn -
From where I prior rashely I leaped.

Along the road through country fields,
Farmers scarce but marking every inch,
The sun rolls dreamy through the cloud,
It breaks over the sheaves of air to grace,
The green with muted highlights meek,
Clinging dearly to the ground - the fog
Hangs durable to waning day yet parts,
To frame the world in vibrant bleeding edges.

From top to bottom flushing through,
The pipes are hollowed out anew,
All autumn's heaps are cleared away,
To unyielding bouts of winter rain.

From dawn till dusk,
The day draws on,
Dipping into coldest lakes,
Glimmers of a frozen sun,
March rays upon the dew,
Imprisons in its rainbow lights,
'Till frost remains entombed.

Great mourning flood dragons,
Enthralling clouds and chasing winds,
Bursting them with fearsome calm:
White roses bloom. Blotting out the sky,
Thunderous knocks that masquerade
As soft ambience to the call of bells.

Bearing storms that swirl ahead,
Retreating to absurder heights within,
Heavenly galleries amidst the clouds,
Their pillars quaking at the roaring tide,
That mocks its weight to dance,
Between the clouds and hurry strength,
Pursuing stalling air to motivate,
A passionate descent.

Dark spires decend in shadows steeped,
Drawing near to kiss the head and turn,
With haste up to their lofty peaks,
To watch the deathly winter yearn,
To thrash beyond the sky as if to meet,
Imposing arches with primordial throes,
The ancient stones belie this forceful feat,
Old cracks amidst the sprouting new.

How crisp the air of winter morns, just soft,
Enough brush your cheeks and bite your nose,
To dress the world in cotton folds and furs,
Yet leave the greens a breath to burrow and stand stalwart.

The hum of lights in textured evening,
Tickling the leaves, dancing on beyond,
A humble stream. Not overbearing but,
Overcoming all rolls and folds of black,
That slink into the recesses of the night.

Express trip through a day,
Packed fuller than a fir tree's spine,
Concrete jungles to old oaken arches,
Making ways by solitary trees,
To finally find a place to sleep.

River running, bubbled at the twine of brooks,
Passed by though tempted take some lengthy looks,
Wettened reads drag with the nagging tide,
Drooping branches bounding now the river wide.

Upon a whim to stand on clouds,
Adrift so meekly in their tread,
The world below to cease its sound,
Turn upwards to the layered beds,
Behold low geometry upon it crowned,
Some wispy stairs to fuller threads,
Perhaps I'd think it without bound,
Yet skyward architects betray:
It skirts from the absurd to the sublime.

Wet grass and the cascading whiff,
Of all encompasing life in verdant sprawl,
Wisened roots to gentrify in truer sense,
Lowly paths to watch ascending arches,
Leaves and moss to drape the land in pearls.

Hardened rain to dash on the concrete slabs,
Tarmac blacked in waves of pouring droplets,
So dreary weren't it drenched in majesty,
This power and great spectacle to see.

Through the clouds,
I'm falling and the world outside
Is sifting down the greys to whites,
Then quickly whites to greys,
We're out and free but now around,
Are fleeting structures in the air,
Pretty pillars - bastions with flair.

Thrown upon the waves to the pulsing sun,
Adrift afar and I am where I once was not,
The wind marches over dunes of water beside,
Falling like sand figures returning to the dust,
Force and valor take upon my ears like gloves,
But slip and scatter beneath the waves again.

The bastion of these fleeting notes,
Man's autograph crusted in the mold,
Claws up in concrete limbs and cobbled scales,
To kiss the clouds and blue sky's cold,
To praise the trees for all their heights,
More fully praise the blacksmith old,
Of valleys low and churning lakes,
Of fluttered trees and high hills bold.

Blackened sand to sparkle in the waves,
The shadow's gold dust swarming,
A school of silver fish that line the bed,
Turn southward to escape the shore.

Nature's muse that rides upon the winds,
In fuller brightness overwhelming sight,
Drapes red tooth and claw in white,
Brings forth rain to wash the sullied field,
Ascendant and ascending in enfolded layers,
Beyond itself to place its hand amongst the stars.

A rain walk - rain talk,
To bridge the time between,
Old friends to the shifting hiss,
New friends in view of this
Old sound a texture into sheen,
Turned the world a blackboard and it chalk,

It wrote here in the petals,
It wrote here in the leaves,
It wrote here in the sloping hills,
The hidden stones beneath,

The people they must hear it,
The backdrop of a life under the clouds.

The sky is slate a solemn grey,
That leans into the darkest blue,
Too delicate to imprint upon the fray,
Of fiercly crossing shadows in the view.

The sky in pink and purple,
Diffusing into blue and all its multitudes,
Clouds assemble into ranks,
Tracing out an esoteric boardgame on the heavens,
Scattering orange to the pale.

Passing in the rain,
The glass in turn is slick,
Upon the sky I see a crane,
Draw red lightning in the darkness quick,
To dance for us under the rain,
To watch us pass and leap on grass.

An image of His passion,
In the sublimating day,
That buzzes now with every pulse
Of sunlight scattered on the grass,
That rises in its purest dance,
That grows along the ordained rails,
That follows rising flowers in the wind,
That kiss sun and wither in the wake.

I won't refrain from writing,
And other such litotes,
The sky is hardly dim,
But golden haze that bleeds into a lilac glow.

The trees are far from withered,
But instead a lively sight,
I scarcely consider this a shame,
Instead a weighty image of His might.

Deafened by the rain,
It pours incessant down in streams,
Like roiling flood dragons bearing silver fangs,
Like great anvils to the feet of gongs,
They rattle and I wish to stand amongst the noise,
Pour out myself amidst this majesty,
For He is Lord and I am ruined,
He holds me as I fall beside the thudding rain.

Oh distant wings upon the lower sky,
I hold my ear up to your distant whine,
The evening rumbled in your song,
In swaying air the deepened line:
Away away to farther field,
Drag dust and soot sojourning,
Come cast beyond the surging sea,
To trembling mounts and valleys vast,
Span skies beneath the setting sun,
Grasp grandeur till your heart humbles,
Away away be swept into an awed applause.
What glory crying from the world,
What depth and height a gift of love,
What wisdom vast unsearchable,
What majesty that seeps into each blade of grass.

Fuller rain makes fresh the air,
Upon the twighlight without care,
The day is up and all the world is fuller,
The night has neatly lined with silver,

The glory of the meeker roar,
That gladens soil and farmer more,
Calling to the resting soul at hand,
Come feel the grace and might of God,
See mighty patterns - understand.

And suddenly, a sudden tree!
Placed grown and full just by the path,
In all its hefty trunk and sprawling roots,
Made homely with a band of friends,
Arrayed in summer outfits neatly greened,

A sudden tree in wilting soil,
Cut back for weeds and left to plead,
For something lively in the wake,
Of cold hard soil and hardly friends,
But now the path has found a pleasant pause in roaring streets.

See the sunny tide,
A rolling ripple endless to the sky,
A blue-cast dancer in the spotlight of the day,
The pebbles fold into their multitudes on the shore,
They huddle too in silent waves.

Morning rain that fills the world with sound,
Crystal clear melds into shattered white,
Like mist and fog - a halo on the ground,
This fiercer blessing full in sight,
To temper greenery, rebound,

Rescinding at the briefest call,
To bursts of sun in place of emptied clouds.

A walk beside fenced rolling grass,
Old village houses and their twinkling glass,
A pebbled path away to depths of civility,
To hidden lodges lambasted by their shrubbery,
I never see the people of these houses,
Perhaps one day they'll stand in sight -
Neat shirt all tucked and blouses.
An image that can't help but be,
So different from the bare reality.

Vibrant are the flowers,
Making bright the hazy sky,
The freshness of the learned trees,
Suspended in the air like heaping autumn piles,
Away to peaceful gravestones in the eve.

I feel the echoes of my people,
Rustling the idle grass in patient waves,
The light falls gently at the hour,
Drawing in the clouds to its descent,
Like robes of white and sashes to its lowered face,
Humbly now it hides its glory for the day,
Set firmly into dimmer shades refracted.

The eager pictures fall behind,
They took a lightness on my eyes,
Now heavy lids make days draw quick,
Walk heedless weary 'neath the sun,

Beside the swollen grass and waning stalks,
Beat on in pulses as the vigor of my heart,
Rescind the rain to call the summer glaze,

A squabbled scene of green to find,
Which lasts beyond all strength of spring,
Alas the eager pictures will return at dawn,
To test I last beyond all strength of spring.

A poem for the road,
Away from rainy Westland,
Amidst the bold assertions of the sun,
Between the blowing bouts of rain,
Beside the verdant countryside again,
Becoming deeper entrenched in vibrant reality,
Culminating in great golden fields,
Crossing by the grassy hills like sleeping giants,
Creasing hills into their lumpy folds.

Oh off beyond the countryside,
To concrete fields and glass meadows,
Then deeper into busy humanity,
Wearing different clothes and colours,
Wearing different eyes and noses,

Now hustle on into these sharpened trains,
In costume unfamiliar yet so nearly just the same,
Now bustle on into discomforting seats,
Share some words with perfect strangers,
Find they're rather neat in all their rich humanity,

Oh off beside the countryside,
For hours under clear blue skies,
For hours by oil painterly clouds,
That flow above lush life racing,
That frame the pretty flowers by the tracks,

Oh off beyond the countryside,
To battered train to olden shore,
Encamped each side by her majesty blue,
Here I glimpsed what I didn't know,
A place one dear to me has spent her days.

A moody sky drags teal greys -
Greeting them with a sort of dim aqua,
At the boundary of arboreal shadows -
A quiet sky brews upon the firmament,
Like the afterglow of a chemical reaction -
The dimming blues tide over into slate.

The texture of an open space,
The vacant sky and distant blue,
Flows into hazy beams of light,
That shatter on the reeds and grass,
A tugging but withdrawing ache,
A refreshing breeze to season such a place,
The open world - that homely countryside,
Perhaps I'll long for you in time,
When I am far beneath a convoluted sky,
This place of youth and open land,
This blessed texture for a distant time perhaps.

Sensitised to all the grubs,
I hadn't seen them in a while,
All bathed in LEDs and pristine paper,
Behind my books and concrete streets,
Far from the simple soil and crawling critters,
Rarely seeing slugs and arching arachnids,

Alas I ventured to domestic dirt,
To the land of green and brown and browner,
To sheer the earthen blanket shorter,
To bare up holes and erect tiny pillars in the soil.

Three feathered of a kind,
Find purchase on a powerline,
A quiet elder to younger opined:

"The urbanisers made their nests,
Of shiny things and smoothest rocks,
To call us measly lowly pests,
But many kind do share their bricks."

Now dither not the three ascend,
Onto the wind and distance rend,
From time and seam it back again,

"Come dear child and see the trees,
Here see powerlines and little suns,
Once lean now fills the space with green,
And interleaves the urban run."

Now dither not the three do land,
To muddy paths by fields so grand,
That come to find the face of forest pan.

"Learn to dance and scatter in the way,
To fly and hop by beauty at the meadow,
To frit about by busy creatures don't delay,
Come see the urbanisers and their shadows."

Just to watch the sunset fall,
Isn't it beautiful that the day is done?
Can't you see this gift of time all wrapped up neat,
In such fervent descent into gold and mauve?
Painted tranquility just as Turner's Carthage.
In laughter and a wandering peal of giggles,
Cold breezes by the tufts of grass,
Innocent of the time that passed,
Come find the memories that
Huddle at the roots of fledgling trees.
In all this wholesome friendship found,
Confess that the day is done but He remains and
In His name we sought to find a friendship good and lovely.

The chirping birds frame trees in sound,
Now here we stand when Grace abound,
In these I see a glory woven,
My purchase at the seat of God,
His body taut on wood and shame,
Divisions broken at His name,
I see the thick oil painterly clouds,
It's beauty now to me so rich,
For all is mine for I am His,
Now He is mine, what more is this?

Deeper, deeper blue,
Like evening sky in waning winter,
When the sky is thick but lighter,
A rolling scene of scattered hue,
Absent of stars or sun or moon,
Alone the wind a hallowed tune,
Comes drawn across the sky in lieu,
Makes firm the navy waves,
Marks out a flashing bright enclave,
A whistle in the deeper blue.

Outside a misty dress this April rain,
Ebbs light and soft upon the window pane,
Drapes fit the form of day in ponderous grey,
Then frills of light and weaving spikes array,

Pretty flowers upon glass leaves do sway,
Take firm the droplets for a coat to stay,
The wind a brash caress that turned away,
Found solace by the bulwark - April Rain.

A wooded walk through half-lit night,
Cascading from the moon pale light,
Wrestles through charcoal smoke to sight,
It's bone white glow submerged in plight,
Then busting through again with might,
The moon makes charcoal dust and smoke
Like passing shadows beneath a pristine cloak.

A slowly day,
A day less travelled,
A meandering rooted to the spot,
A wooden seat and strangely creak,
A looking to the window side,
A windy gust that splays the green,
A thrashing dance of hedgerows lean,
A slowly look into the fray,
A slowly look upon the patter in the rain.

Passed the muddy mirror once again,
Now settled slightly by the side,
A tiny desert on the mirror's bed,
The turmoil heaped to solid hills,
That glance upon their painted faces,
Clouds and tinted-brown sky blue,
Trees that dip into the mirror just the same.

O golden haze ephemeral,
I see you drift by mud slick roots,
Come watch the weary leaves turn bright,
Amber emerald in the gorgeous rays,
Like precious gems and golden drops,
Such beauty and high majesty,
To turn the wilting shrubs to glass,
To temper them like bronze in biting winds,
This golden haze that marks the air,
That causes springly birds to sing.

I see a dog in the distance,
Turning mirrors into cascading sheets,
That fall and splatter on the muddy grass,
At once from the depth roiled,
These mirrors in the muddy grass,
Hold smokey geometry below the line,
And dash their muddy pictures on the image of the trees.

I saw a bird in obsidian cloak,
Make ripples and a flaring splash,
Knee deep in mirrors on the muddy grass,
Playing free to dust and clean itself,
To shed away all filthy things,

Now skyward march the bouncing rays,
Up with the swooping droplets lest they fall,
On rippled clouds and sky below,
Off now the bird unshackled from the dust,
To leave the mirrors by the swaying grass.

Morning walks through livened wood,
The air is crisp and fresh to gasp,
I see the delicate birds fly by,
Ornate wooden sculptures in their hazel coats,
They make another branch their path,
And they roll it out into the air,
They tap the wind and melt into its turn,
These wooden crafts and beautiful things.

A joy to look,
On brief English air,
That rolls on by,
In grey greens and browns,
The curt nods of trees,
The neat standing grass,
The wizened oaks that grin:
"Moornin'"
And holler from a friendlier world.

Sitting on the noonday bench,
Entrenched within the slope
Of failing wood and chipping paint,
The sky is clear yet spent,
Speckled with the fleeing clouds,
Or maybe they are seeded new,
The breeze is quick - the city scent
Is carried beneath the noonday blue.

Walking on the right side,
When daily I walk left the road,
The world unfolds a little changed,
A clearer view to open skies,
The clouds like golden whispers streaking through,
Then purple scars then orange plumes,
It's beauty and its awe at last,
Just from a daily path the same,
Yet its different and I know it too,
Another side unfolded in my eyes,
Another glory refracted through the haze of life.

The morning sky is blue grey,
Washed out and fuming vapours through its teeth,
It bears them in a contradicting grin,
Down to the rolling clouds below,
Puffs that make the air blue grey and close,
The dew slick grass and open concrete,
Gaze up upon their vaporous host,
And bid him wind when mid morning close,
When mid morning toss his anger with a burst of light,
Vapour clears - the sky more blue less grey.

In the Land of the Living,
Where His mercy is close,
The trees take His breath,
The rocks and pools both,
From setting to rising,
His mercy is close.

I'm transported to a rainy world in blue,
The sky is shaded mint - the drops of rain a gentle hue,
To dash the world in reverie,
The verdant meadow splashes new,
Like watercolour on the air above,
A turquoise in the lazy droplets,
Glistening the grass like morning dew,
Abandon and a reckless walk,
To feel the falling rain strike softly on my hair,
To spend a moment as the pitter patter,
To watch it colour glasses sparkling and blue,
To patter by the dreamy view.

Beneath the stars,
The moon a speckled general in the sea,
Up seems weak to convey their heights,
They go beyond my reach,
Yet higher still I know the depths recede,
Beyond my comprehension firmly at the peak,
Till all the starry hosts are generals on the seas.

Yesterday's painting,
Hung up in splendor,
Like molten beauty, steaming off the horizon,
Like distilled glory crying out:
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Beautiful are the lips of the Lord,
Justice and glory drip like honey on His breath,
He utters it and it is so.

The sky is pink,
Then technicolour in a breathe,
Such beauty that stains the clouds in royal purple,
A few shades beyond belief above the melding yellow onto orange.

Walking on a snowy afternoon,
A sight as enchanted as its rare,
It does not deign to linger soon,
Like faeries in the molting air,
I walk on slowly as you do,
Beneath light sift to palest glare,
My mind trots on a little tune,
To make a poem strung and fair.

Winter's maw lies unhinged in open air,
Teetering on the edge of snow,
But holding off another day,
If time held fast it'd make it slow,
If seconds passed it'd make them linger.
For liquid frost falls from cruel Winter's fangs,
They seize the earth and drag it down to deepest stillness.

By means of bark and branches,
I am become a tree,
Firm hold the little squirrelses,
I cast them out like heated breath,
That clouds the air and fades careless,
They are at once unseen,
Into the frosty air and out into the mess,
Of roots and curling leaves.

I'll see you in the garden,
My rock and hiding place,
My rushing stream to guide the way,
I'll see you in the quiet glade,
I'll see you by the mottled crags,
My song and glory crying out,
My light and spotless righteousness,
I'll see you on the holy mount,
And walk with you to streets of golden glass,
And know no light apart from you.

Above meandering paths,
The sky remains the same,
Though crushing rain pours down,
And makes the air full brimming,
The sky above remains always,
Though ground transmutes to flowing mud,
Thick through the grey and fullest air,
The sky above holds tight the rain,
It's shall not cease to guide its stay.

---

**Oxford Interview Reflection**
Keble 1, 11:30AM
I...
Was not picking up,
What was being put down,
And came out with a frown.

Hertford 2, 5:50PM
Somewhere I have found a path,
But is it too meandering?
A farce. Hard to trace,
The extent of the matter,
Through the vapour obscured,
But I took a path at least.

**INTERVIEWS COMPLETE**

To fight the cold in these solid days,
My sword a reproducing shiver,
My breastplate woven fabric interlapping,
Yet in these solid days,
That press against the edge of space,
I feel ten suns there to my side,
A warmth through-seeping layers deep,
Now I am soft melting.
Bound up in fabric interlapping.

I see the fireflies in the dark,
They crown the shadowed hill,
And gently glow the horizon,
It stands a wall to watch their flight,
A city dressed in light.

A drop of red smears the sky,
And the blue is crushed to lavender,
The fragrance dancing at the precipice,
Constrained to sight amidst an amber flare,
The afterglow of day in rolling colours.

In the quiet walks come eve,
Woods are painted yellow-red,
The leaves are piled and glistened wet,
Assembled to chaotic tiles,
To build tomorrow's soil and life,
For shoots to rise up from their place.

The storm outside is wide and vast astride
My house, but kept behind closed doors for now,
Its peaking through in chasing cold: a peal
Of laughter striking from the clouds above,
A yellow glow that lamps the walls and lines
My face and warms it in the chasing cold,
All's grey, but these are painted bright inside,
All's grey, but these are painted bright inside.

Puddles at my feet,
Umbrella down dripping,
Clouds shattered in puddles,
Scattered by the falling splashes,
Like tiny celebrations,
Inch high explosions, vivid,
Heralding the days end.

I am bitten by the cold today,
In pieces by the frosted fields,
Yet I'm carried on great shards of ice,
That bend halfway, and thud the ground,
I hide my chin, my hands within
A plastic sheet with zips and pleats.

_Intro_

Come, walk in the rain with me,
Don't you know the Lord is near,
My heart burns within me,
And I am alive.

_Walking_

The colours striking at my soul,
So vibrant in their passing by,
The light transfigured in my eyes,
The splendor on the leaves and grass,
Glorious.

_A praise_

Blessed morning dew,
I lift my eyes to you,
In the rain and storms that brew,
I fix my eyes on you.

Faithful,
You are Faithful,
When I wake you're always there,
When I rest you will remain.

_Walking_

The rain is wide and fills the air,
To silence I am called to walk,
He's with me in the pressing rain,
And wisdom calls for fear of God.

_The Grey Meadow_

Washed in greys and sombre nights,
Great skies above in broken might,
The colours stripped but hardly bleak,
They cry for justice in the rain,

Trees in sackcloth, mourning clouds,
They call for lowly ponderance,
For noble beauty reconciled,
For holiness in open fields.

_Walking_

The bright is caught in puddles thin,
And scattered to the plucking rain,
What grace is this that I can feel,
What it is to be.

_What it is to be_

What it is to be,
That you knit and know me,
Loved me from when you thought of me,
Predestined me for fullness of life,

That I would know what it is to dance,
That I would know what it is to walk,
To see, to smell, to touch, to hear,
To taste your goodness in the rain.

_Outro_

And as I peek at passing time,
I'm tugged to rush in dripping rain,
Yet you remain.
And calm my heart before it burns again,

I know that you will make a way,
For I am walking in the rain with you,
And so I find a delayed train,
What providence you walk me through!

O Eastlight, dawn of sight,
Begins the quiet morn,
At First Light, splendor sown,
The fields are gold beneath,
At Lesser Light, the day,
In full, the toil and play,
At Greater Light, the calm,
Rest firm in warmest ray,
At Shadow Dead, the storm,
Ravenous, bitter cold,
At Shadow Silent, borne,
The heroes burnished bronze,

To catch the Eastlight pure,
To sit in fields of gold.

The cloudy sky is mottled pastel blue,
The grass is green and vibrant through and through,
I watch the clouds, they dance to one fine tune,
Friendship blooms in a windy afternoon.

Great chunks of air,
Are spiraled near,
They bash the trees,
They strike my ears
And face between,

I hear them fierce,
I watch them run,
They through woods pierce,
And nature's heart
Is struck but firm.

Rain walking through the air between,
Waltzing verticle to my feet,
Greeting red clothe over my head,
It's soft chattering scatters on the concrete.

The frost is as starlight,
Sun scattered to galaxies through the dew,
I watch these frigid mornings bloom,
Like a candle snuffed at daybreak,
The frost is gone, the warmth deep set beneath,
The frost is as whispers.

A barking dog punctuates the evening,
Textured chords on the flat darkness,
I saw the celestial assembly singing,
In silent praise they hummed last night,
Perhaps I'll see them bright again,
To what's ugly and begrimed lambasting,
To what's true and wholesome testifying,
Lord lift my mind to these heights of glory,
To see you there and return praising.

O' flow, Great River pouring forth,
At dayspring shattered dust beside,
At twilight echoed praise behind,
Fled is thirst, that wretched chain,
Fled my hollow pride and vain-,
Glory, love for drought and rage,
I thirst no more, I thirst no more!

Blue River, Yours are colours myriad,
Yours are truest beauty, full,
In pouring out Yourself on dust,
I thirst no more, I thirst no more!

I try to walk on painful stones beside,
The water's glory bare before my eyes,
Whisper, whisper, why do you speak in rhymes?

I thank the LORD your rhymes find ends in Him,
To Him my ears are clear to Your beauty,
To Him my eyes are clear to Your beauty.

Walking in the harsher rain,
Surrounded by my blood tied squad,
Five mouths agape at the unfolded cliffs,
Such beautiful stone and glimmering ocean,
Left me dazed in the harsher rain,
We smile at the downpour,
Failing to ruin a walk it watered it.

I look into the looming air,
I am so small beneath the expanse,
The dancing clouds seem full and fair,
Alight with golden rays that seem to make them swell.

Clicking snaps layer like paper,
Flush against the squirming sound beneath,
They nudge the grass in swaying resonance,
Dancing to the grass-hopping tune,
These little critters play the wind,
With sprung legs and rocket boots,
Their muscles like pistols coughing steam from clicking joints.

True sun,
Burning silent by the clouds,
Enshrouded in the fog and cumulus high,
I stare it in the eyes,
And shaded just enough,
I bare my gaze on its a few
Seconds and the line is snapped.
And looking down I feel its tap,
On my shoulders as it breaks,
Through the skyward net above.

Block coloured sky descends again,
Folding round the thick tree's edge,
Blending it's turquoise and teal into shaded crevices,
And at once the world outside is blue and humid.

Playing with the fog beyond,
It takes light strokes at far off folks,
Tall austere greens are turned pale blue,
And solid bark is pulled thin to fading wisps afar.

The sky's bleeding rose gold,
It trickles through the leaves -
Pooling in the darkness,
And overwhelming the horizon with its heft,
It tugs the colour from the sky,
Leaving a fracture of white that fades into cotton candy blue,
It melds into my mind,
And I see it in my thoughts dripping like syrup off the edge of the world,
Down into a devoid dreamland.

In the waking twilight,
The sky looms still,
Amused in dying passions of colour,
A school of stars swim frozen in the timeless seconds,
Stalled out of sight behind the withering elation of evening,
Perplexed, the outside world is grasped in overbearing memory,
Locked out by windows then eyelids before it is encased in my head,
I bend it slightly to convey a folded beauty,
And I spill it out onto this virtual page,
Light as paper,
Pen flowing as binary charge.

Sitting in the sunny grass,
And the urban sprawl lies sandwiched in my sight between,
The rolling hedges and the ocean line,
It frays the sky - its roots upended,
And holds its peace below the clouds,
Sharper than a razor's edge,
And laying here the grass imprinted,
My gaze procured in sunny fields.

Green way,
And the grey tattoo is hemmed in by lines of uninterrupted nature,
The uniform scar stretches along the earth,
As a myriad of green sways in the wind of hurtling tin cans,
The dancing trees exude vitality to the point of near bursting,
It's a strangly beautiful and upsetting sight,
You are present to see such a vibrant sprawl...
But the green way stands interrupted.

Marbled sky,
And the muted clouds seem to scar the horizon,
They reach up and paint the sky in a tumult of blues,
And the open air is devoured by roaming teals.

Sunnied heads,
Bob along to thudding steps,
And greener fields find wandering impressions on their face,
Dodging horses now long gone.

Tiles sit sunken in their earthen thrones,
Marbled and mottled with spots of yellow and faded greys like elderly skin,
Beyond the grass bristles,
Youthful in the roaring wind,
And the world falls silent to the deafening whistle of the afternoon breeze,
And in the face of ceaseless squall the grass is greener in my sight,
And the quiet chatter merges with the birdsong,
All fades into the recesses of the soundscape,
And the moment seems to stretch on contentedly.

Rolling fields,
Flow under our treading shoes,
And the world seems to lurch backwards,
Leaving us down along the path beneath,
Punctuating the notes of talked out tunes and hurried feet,
A good thing is found,
In a weary walk of Father and Son.

Stormy day,
Solemn on the raining wings of mourning clouds,
They chase the wind like rolling flood dragons,
Blotting out the sky with their sublime scales,
And a small being walks,
Awestruck underneath the mourning clouds,
That's a pretty sober spectacle, Dad.

Pale Emperor of the winding wood,
Your kingdom abounds in brash bristles,
Taming the rippling mud hills,
You grasp the light and steal the shadows,
All falls dim in paling fields,
And in your calmest annunciation,
You whisper songs of palest moonlight,
That measure through the breadth of this land,
Yet I'll see you soon in withered dust,
For one domain prevails at last,
And flimsy flowers grow prideful in their wilting ways.

Mirrors in the muddy grass,
And your glory permeates the land,
The light hangs like pearls -
Drooping off the edges of leaves,
They seem burdened under the weight,
Yet hold it with pristine elegance,
And their brilliance warms the day,
Even on the ground you place glistening gems,
Catching wanding sunlight and storing it,
Resplendent on their gleaming heads,
The light falls gently now,
And the shadows seem brighter,
All the while your beauty triumphs in the dimming days.

Coalesce and luminesce,
Among the drifting pomlights that hang,
Ripe for the picking, their cyan halos express,
Lining the cavern's sandstone contours with vibrance that bangs,
Pom juice will soon flow out from the press,
A heavenly nectar when proportioned with purest water,
Drawn from the glistening deep rock pools,
That lie below in weighty meekness,
The image of serenity,
Cooling down and holding up the caverns spacious plot in rolling dust.

Muddy puddle,
Sits still a little to the left,
I see you clear as day,
And all your sharpest highlights and dullest reflections,
Yet are you truly holes and lightning?
Ephemeral as the fleeting moment,
Turning at the slightest inspection to something sharper than a blade,
And the untouched knowledge is left scattered on the wind,
Muddy water obscuring is itself obscured and its writhing lighting fields wrapped in a cloak of macro muddling.

Open spaces,
Make me small and surround me,
Place me in my right place to see...
The world and all its wonders grand,
That unfold out to drench man in the sublime,
And much clicks into wondrous place,
When largest scales do make you see,
Your world and Lord in truer might to mightless men.

Glowing sights,
Stand bare before the curious gaze,
And all is quiet except for a fuzzy whirring,
Hurtling down the barrel, racing electrons chase after the very space before them,
They clatter through the graphite and reality seems to rend apart,
Splitting into probabilistic paths,
Before making up its mind as the cloth is struck,
A glowing image in its wake,
It's flows out from the bright centre in concentric rings of phosphorus green,
And curious eyes gaze wide open at the theory put into practice.

Chaining stars,
Seem to string together in succession,
Forming a deep formation spanning the firmament,
They line the recesses of the local cosmic clusters like valiant halls,
And burn in concentrated power,
King's over domains bestowed,
Beyond them the invisible one presides,
Appreciating the beauty of his work still,
Let us join Him.

Blazing blades rain down and savage the land,
They seem to set out like roaring legions,
They terrorise the cowering dust in their purest splendour.

Now in burning brightness I see...
I too am dust...

Revelling in vapour,
Ground down in my fury,
Dead except to murmer haunting echoes,
These blades shall throw me down with rolling rust and dying dust.

Yet even for I there is a plea...
For from these down-beating rays and righteous beams,
So too rise clouds under its gaze,
And the water is poured down like blood,
And my thirst shall leave.
15.02.23

Darkest shadow drenches the land in its silky robes,
And the sound of death fills the air,
Empty echoes haunt the name of sound itself.

Stale air crusts over the fresh embers of day,
And the violence reaps its weighty silence,
The shifting tides of dust seem to shudder imperceptibly,
But still the deep night doesn't shroud the thirst for life.

A malevolent storm rouses the sand from its slumber,
And vain monuments rise from the scorched dust,
All the while these embers of the wind utter course and rocky violence.

Lashing sands blindly whip themselves into a rage,
Parched bones in a pile of yearning reflections,
They are ground down in their fury,
They seek the water too.

A lake of crystals slumps into the earth before me,
Serpentine ripples dance along the watery film and glide over the heaps of sand,
It washes the ground in dilute blues.

A tired thirst doubts the sight,
Sounding out a quiet flutter of wings that ascends into a pulsing murmuration,
A quick wave of the hands and the water turns to vapour,
And the mirage recedes.

Cold hands,
Are frozen in the air,
Steady still if not for rampant jitters,
Clawing for the wind,
Dancing round snaking zips,
And fumbling on icy metal,
Open please, dear bag of mine,
Twice frosted though contents now the same,

Oh... a little cut,
From frozen metal shining,
A little more red than I last appreciated,
As always...
Far more weighty than we seem to grasp,
An intrusion of morality into our ignorance,

Oh... how scarlet,
You stain us with that which cannot be unstained.

A heavy cold is about,
The very manifestation of violent stillness,
Uncaring of the ember it devours like a lamb,
Impassive to the dancing lights that fall dull in its maw.

Just as the old king said,
A time for all things under the Sun,
For the pleasant rays,
And voracious blight.

A corroding of pipes and stripping of bricks,
Cracking mud when the chilly night pursues,
The cold days are few,
Yet now they begin again.

The cool breeze seemed to pick itself up and then place itself back down again,
For in a room it is still,
It’s coldness stationary,
Frozen even.

Between the walls,
It’s power is as naught,
Instead it whispers quiet snowflakes at the doors,
And dances not on hard glossy floors.

Beneath the roof,
It simply confesses of its coldness,
But it is a subdued tickle,
Not a rampant upheaval.

What a thing a home is,
To relieve the battering breeze of its fury,
And hold it still in quiet peace,
To tell it what is safe to do and where to blow.

Shattered clouds fall,
In a downpour of fragrant gemstones,
Resounding like a flowing tide,
Blaring a horn at their descent,
And in a moment whispering.

Loud and quiet like a wandering melody,
Vibrant and cautious like the patting of tiny feet,
They cover the earth in depths and shallows,
Pouring out from the heavens.

All the world rejoices,
For it rains on the righteous and the wicked,
And His grace calls out like rushing waters,
To turn from their darkness and dance in the rain with Him.

The blues hues,
Sit lighty in a hazy snooze,
And all the world is frozen.

The earth and heavens subdued,
Together in a glacial muse,
And the flowers are hidden in austere blankets.

The snow is lingering a little longer.

A soft crackle of snow,
Chases my shadow,
Dancing under the chilly pale light,
And waltzing with my shoes.

A cool breeze,
Caresses my nose leaving it red,
And sleepy clouds seem to fall off their axes,
Down, down into the waking land below.

A quiet walker,
Trudges on to his home,
A faithful friend limps beside,
It's not a long way now.

How he loves him.

Your melody walks swiftly over the horizon,
Dancing playfully under the waves,
Treading firmly through the glaring eyes of hurricanes.

It crawls, walks and scuttles among the humble things,
And soars above the lofty heights,
Reverberating through valleys and rocking the earthen cradle.

It flows through the sky waters,
Permeating the three heavens,
And ploughing into the depths of sheol.

It is boundless,
And sans time it glided other the formless,
The beautiful symphony of your presence is now within us.

A drowsy breath slips through my gaping jaw,
Out, out into the evening air,
It's quiet and pleasant.

It shifts and turns beneath my weighted eyelids,
Invisible and ephemeral,
At once it's gone,
In its place evening air as it once was,
Yet one part warmer.

A fragrant summer,
Breeze drifts lightly,
To another's slight delight,
And to my contentment.
A cozy blanket,
Falls from the cosmic canopy,
And raps me up in the deep embrace of stillness.
It's warm and yellow.
Another rests beside also.

The raging fire of Summer licks the earth,
Leaving famine in its wake.
Autumn plummets and rolls into winter,
Fleeting and dull.
Winter stands poised before it crumbles,
A false show of strength.
Spring wars against itself,
Life chained in death,
A fragment of a rejected paradise.

All the while toil and trouble,
Mark the face of the earthen clock.
They like to dance you see,
Chasing the wind in vainglory and disregard,
Theirs are tornados and wild fires.

But I know of an ancient secret,
One told to many,
And observed by few.
It tells of a greater toil:
One for that which is eternal.

To love his statutes,
And to toil for his people.

O what it is to see your beauty in this fallen land.
You bathe my face in sunlight and vaporise the dirt on my skin.
You have made me a Prince and lay down thick golden carpets on my path.
You place a fire in my heart to bear the coldness.
You have placed in me a wellspring of living waters.

Your world is beautiful,
All creation awaits its resurrection.