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A sadness
for the once rough paths
now clept with
the clanking authority of signposts,
and buried in shiny shinglings, noisy scrunchings,
where once we, barefoot,
could in our stealth assault our friends in play
and play rough boyhood madness
while the weather held.

And for those fine Treants, kings of trees
whose springy arms we used to roll us down to earth,
and hanging off play moonmen walking,
all too ...

Wew, after almost a year of not writing anything for it. I suddenly came up with a subtitle for my story. Hopefully it is the start of a creative impulse, which will finish or at least propel my story forward towards an eventual end.

It's already planned out, I just don't know how to go about writing it, and I'm not really happy with some of the parts anyway, that need to be rewritten. Anyway, if you were wondering, the title including subtitle is

HELPING THE WORLD

...

Over the water
under a wintering sunbeat
flashes of metal
shine in the pulses of an oilslick heart,
a mask of rainbow
dapples,
perhaps it was pretty.

Glacial valley
bright yellow sodium lamps
make me think of stars

little points of light
each one certainly a sun
maybe with someone

looking back at me
on a planet of their own
and thinking 'what if'?

For Marcel Proust & others who enjoy strolling down memory lane occasionally.




Walking in the past
in coronation gardens
aoristic strolls

excursions in space
are more prevalent to us
more comfortable

recollections of
locomotions in term though
are less relevant

kinaesthetics of
‘lang syne’ a Proustian cake
of memory lane
...