claritydesign

What shores? I stand on England's once mighty shore Last broken vestige of a proud land Alone with my brooding thoughts Resigned, hopeless introspection Even the sea laps moodily against the sand pulling back small, sad waves A selfish child clutching the smallest prize, in a clammy hand Fret and greed crowd me in A dark distraction We are a mean people now Line of kings frayed and grown thin Cold machines dripping rust and oil Empty-eyed men slouch along industrial slums Sowing their crops of filth and rubbish Reaping a harvest of fear and pain Numb, futile realization slams in Knees fold and I drop A heathen lord, bowed

steady rhythm of your sleeping breath easeful structure to my languid thoughts your hand moves beneath milk soft sheets an unconscious glide in your warm chocolate oblivion I turn, the smallest of smiles gracing corners of your mouth I wonder if you are running again through honeycomb ripe corn open hand brushing brittle, whispering ears in your sweet, sunburnt world thick dusty curtains hang in molten, velvet folds straining to contain the suns insistent glare speeding universe of tiny motes dance through pure shafts of liquid air my eyes first wander, then rest in the corner of this familiar room whilst thoughts remain fix

Never have I felt more at peace with my soul than when I stood statue still atop the crown of that high, blustery hill. A sun delighted to shine on that blissful day clouds content to bask sleepily in a deep azure sky. It wasn't an easy climb, I must say I had drank too much the day before a dull throb pounded out the beat of my heavy steps as I toiled towards the always distant goal. Choirs of birds kept me company singing in blissful ease, content just to be. I puffed and leaked, glancing up supporting my arms on my knees. The sinuous, thumping ascent only made the final rise all the more sweet sweet as the cold, crystal wate

The Old Man I passed a man today Huddled like a broken egg A careless mound Dumped on slick concrete Oblivious as wet rock In sleeting rain Wearing his exposed past In bulging pockets A greasy urban camouflage Uniform of the homeless More patch that coat Glistening like oiled leather Stacatto car lights Accuse his bright hard face Lighting weathered hands Unravelling a mossy grey beard Eyes under dark brows, fever bright Sad old man lost in a trench War Quick flash of a boy's past Warm sun on a bare back Cool sea and sand through toes Smiling brown face, eyes closed His mothers hand, familiar Touselling sun-bleached ha

A poem written for Bob and Esther, Thank you both for a beautiful and memorable time. By Matt Elliott. The Dance of Summer. Autumn approached, tall and firm of step, mellow faced and ruddy cheeked. With a ripe, fruitful smile he gazed, like countless times before, upon wild abandon Of a flushed and breathless Summer. who, with sudden awareness and mirth, blazed and twirled, in a cloudless, azure dance, to stand beneath Autumn's feet. Hot, sunburnt youth, gazing up to calm, misty man. Without a word, with practiced grace, rose an earthy, brown hand. Between thumb and forefinger held, a single, quivering leaf, the lusty