Cathedral beauty, intricate and fine Yet solid, dependable. Symbol of greatness that was; Built to last. Offering a spiritual experience In a material world. Often viewed as a relic; Outdated and yet so present In the heart of this city.
My house is my home And it goes where I roam And as I grow big So does it. It’s always my size Never too tight a fit Though I eat and I graze All night long. Though it’s comfy and warm And it keeps me from harm I never eat in; watch TV. So tonight I’ll eat out While the birds not about And I hope you won’t Mind little me.
Where dark skies glower o’er grey seas and greyer cliffs Daily they search the shingle and the rocks for signs of fossils Life which they say, once was; now gone; Once flesh and bone; now become stone. Following the shoreline, head bowed, sight funnelled As with blinders, focussed but without the peripheral The geologist scours the beach for proof of evolution. While here sit I, above the littoral; looking down and out to sea Along the coast of ancient rocks of times of my existence; Jurassic coast, where time bleeds into the beach. He sees his footprints in the sand, and I see mine; For here we meet across millennia; in this place; This earthly space where our soles show That both our souls; have touched Creation.
When I visited the Jurassic coast of Dorset, England, recently, it was grey and overcast, eerie and moon-like, as though primordial times still existed. I could not help but picture the dinosaurs which once roamed here and whose fossilised bones sometimes fall (bleed) onto the beach as proof of an existence we can hardly imagine. Footprints too have been found along the coast and so often, as with much of mature, it is a case of being able to recognise, see things, which otherwise we might walk past. I imagined that the dinosaurs were still present as if in another time or realm, for we both walked this land; we are both part of creation.
How does one deal with a brain that is blank No interest in anything: dead? How can one enthuse and react and excite When the vacancy hangs like a cloud? How can one exist in a life that seems full Yet a whirlpool of nothingness looms? How can one write when one’s mind can’t be found When the Muse shuts all doors with dull sound?
I’ll sit here awhile and I’ll tap the keyboard Try to shift torpor from my brain. I’ll struggle to share the Lethe I feel, Try to energise life from the depths; And if even that fails, at least I’ll have tried For my audience, a verse to provide.