I turn away, and turning, reach an end
Avert my gaze and stumble to deny
The woken horror of a wayward friend
...
I woke in the dawn
I picked the leaves
I plucked the fruit
I hunted the beasts
...
She dared sketch symphonies in the winterdark dawn
Faint snatches of melody yet not fully formed
I felt her dignity; frail but unbending
Broken bursts of half-sensed hope; expanding, still pending
...
Aimless wanderer; plucker of stringed instruments; teacher of English; scrawler of articles, blogs, poems and suchlike; student of irony, hopeless romantic.)
Saccades & Fixations
We do not follow smoothly
glide with grace
gradually accrue
We jolt amid the fragments and then stay
to incubate the information
strained through filters past
and given in blood's stain
and then dart off again