Metaphor’s the soul of poetry:
this incongruous instrument of speech
with which we say one thing,
when we mean quite another:
and when you’re a child, you learn so much
of ‘grown-up’ life, of ‘grown-up’ values –
by the tone of voice
A spring morning – well,
I only need to say the words?
I’ll picture mine, you picture yours –
champagne bubbling in the blood and in the mind,
The sound of wooden rake scratching concrete.
walk nearer - rustle of dry leaves.
This, the beginning of a Japanese haiku
tenth in the sprint
ninth in the four hundred
eighth in the cross-country
seventh in the potato race
Oh I am so fortunate.
In the past and in the present.
We fell in love, and loved
In thy dear image and thy likeness, Lord,
are we as human made, your servant tells;
how then to know ourselves, in this new sight,
and where to look, to see our godly selves?
On the shelf above the crackling fire,
the day’s work over, shadows swaying and flickering
across the room, in the firelight’s glow;
here is love abiding