Dream slowly in the dark;
Watchers see the quickening thought
And smile.
For them the brain is glass;
They see as clearly as the owl
The fine workings of a fast dream.
One image at a time,
A train,
A lorry pounding up a hill
Alive.
And even in the darkness, stop and think
Of all the old things
Like
A scythe and mower moving in the gold field,
Like
The hourhand of a clock,
Unnoticed.
creepers slowly climbing the old house's side. like the gnarled fingers of an aged human, wrinkled and sly. The still Grecian...
cold white crisply winter of an early snowfall, foot-deep and still snowing; flakes puffing spiral onto the settling whiteness of a...
5.36 am. Sunday 14 July 1985. Standing in the lee of a gorse bush on the South-East facing slopes of Hill wood, up from the old road. The...
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