I’ve quite neglected my little scrap of internet hereabouts, and hopefully soon will be filling it with a few little adventures – I’m yet to write up a single note of Chepstow, nor have I introduced Robert Wright, or thought up another reason why my book on dueling is so over-due(ling).
I’ll do a post on drawing soon too.
But for now – my very dear and much loved Reader – let me carry on with some dull rhymes, and hope that soon I’ll have something less detestable to present.
All cold and through the sky last night
I heard the west-wind blow,
It charmed the grey electric light
With airs I used to know.
The sea was dull, so far away;
The mountains mute and gone.
I heard the timid notes of day
From suns that once had shone.
And thought of friends that knew me right
And things that joy had borne;
That dwindled in that west-wind night
And could not stay till morn.
I’d also had a go at just leaving my notes for another poem as raw notes and re-organising them into something roughly resembling a piece of writing. Normally I’d have turned these following dregs into something rhyming, probably mentioning lots about a sunset or some distant sea. However, instead I’ll present this pretentious jumble:
That remarkable span of hours
that stretches to the end of days,
knitted into the cloudscape
like the thousand-faced features
of an infinite God.
Eternal before and beyond every horizon.
The summit and circumference
of all things.
Less than God
and more than man
The winding day rolls into bloom,
choked on fiery things that have borne it
and spluttering its absent wisps
beyond the deep rim of golden paradise.
A brim-full goblet of time.
after day and God
at last to man:
A thousand faced not in omnipotence
but in ignorance
And standing wretched
beyond the end of all things.
Content in his little daytime
bears the happiest things.
Adieu, dear Reader