looking across a timescape we see into a distant past where great lumbering creatures walked a beach after they died (huge piles of rotting meat) bones were revealed (sand washed in) covered deep for eons minerals leached in replacing calcium (bones became stone) covering sand became stone (long millions of years) and buried deep the bones volcanoes erupted spewing ash which became thick silent layers ice ages came and went continents drifted while land rose and subsided looking across a timescape we see into a distant past
Dials and Bells looking up skywards we can't fail to see dials and bells on a tower face marking time sounding alarms as our lives tick by chimes ringing out we can yell we can scream whisper or shout dials mark time in a visual way but now we find we may not know or even understand what time is or how it flows what really matters with the time we have is how we grow and what we grow into
wine bottles seem so small after you have seen amphorae. civilization is such a big surprise. all it takes to tame troupes of frantic monkeys is sufficient alcohol. amphorae do look interesting in a way. cool shapes. (comforting somehow) frantic monkeys do love their comfort. fear the pandemic, it can damage our feeble brains. already we are woefully underpowered. save my cpu!
the water's cold although the ice is gone. we know icy water from almost before we were young . stick your toes in springtime's chilly water. your toes went in to the ankle; you know cold water for long as you live. deep chill, down deep to where light fades into featureless blurry shadow diffuse light seems to come from every place. interesting days, we still survive: icy weather, cold spring water chills our toddler toes.
tiny trucks deliver to tiny shops, as if there was room on roads. pedestrians learn quickly. out of the way! (no suitable translation springs to mind.) everyone moves aside, quickly. tiny trucks go slowly by. white-painted roads in a beautiful place. tiny trucks leave no dirty tracks on the streets. shops sell a few amazing things: exquisite art, a bowl: carved of ancient olive, grown thousands of years ago. cool shade is an under-rated blessing. just stay cool!
ruins and palms have little value in my daily life. in my memories they are magical. stories of ruins, of the things that happened there and there, well I know that i ought to say: something's very special about the stories i don't want to hear. like the palms, they are not related to my own stories, or my life. they have a very different mesage, maybe, while i might have none. my own stories or my life nothing important, because i must be about as important as an ant in a hill. would i like to be more important? what kind of responsibility comes with that? maybe to be an ant is enough. and what about the palm and its importance? and the wall?
a special day, for celebrating love... but this far north, it's icy cold outside. february is about time to be tired of winter we wait impatiently for springtime. ice and snow becomes tiresome. walking on ice is dangerous. we want our freedom back, to follow our toes, wherever they want to go. valentine's day a special day, for celebrating love... but this far north, it's icy cold outside.
Unless the Centre unless the centre holds, there is no way to win. so beautiful when she was just a girl. the centre of her world, he had clay feet. she had a friend just up the street, when they were young, their lives were sweet. but time went on, they grew apart, and then she gave away her heart. and found a boy she liked so well, she did not think what games he played. unless the centre holds, there is no way to win. so beautiful when she was just a girl. the centre of her world, he had clay feet.
a little rain has never hurt me much. always I've dried out and carried on. i am not safe from drowning, but i have not done that yet. history may guide us if we're wise enough. we know it isn't a perfect guide, but it can help save us from repeating serious errors . rain washes the windows, as i look out this cold, damp autumn day. a little rain has never hurt me much.
sunflowers bow to autumn ripening just in time for little birds celebrating ripe sunflowers. winds ring our big wind chime. i look out the window watching those birds, and see them thrown about by the wind like leaves dancing with a breeze. the sunflower's gone now, harvested and dry. little birds have moved on; little wings will fly.