When the pen takes control.

Spending the weekend in North Devon, looking for inspirational sights and sounds from the rugged grandeur of the cliffs and waves or poetic harmony in the rolling moors, with added alliteration from the babbling brook and sparkling stream. All I’ve gained is the morose damp of the moistening mists. Plenty of time for reflection and retreat.

Grainy grey the sky

silent but for buzzards cry,

the ponies shaking 

mealy waterlogged withers,

antlers clash in morning mist

The Commodore PET

was the first to let us play

in a Basic way

The ripples of stone 

shield the silver scale and fin

from the striking spear

Golden heads of corn

await the singing sickles

harvest harmony

Only when I dream,

I dare to seek the answer

with no sense of doubt

The quest for power

in this presidential race

invites corruption

In the dark they creep,

descendants of an ancient race

invade our nightmares

As the hunter sits

contemplating his shadow,

the moon is no friend

Inspired by the beauty of this October afternoon I felt I should tell you the view from my window

Swirling, shimmering,
shafts of sunlight, lava pools
o’er, the forest floor,
insects rise, glow like fireflies,
eager to dance out brief lives