Most successful writers do their work in the morning. For a practice that some have dubbed the midnight disease, it’s surprising to note that most famous authors aren’t the slaves of spontaneous inspiration, but instead, all write in the early hours of the morning.

All I really want is to converse,
With those who share a simple human soul
Ancients past who left to us their verse.
Mystics who have sought to make us whole.

Far beyond the house extensions reaching,
Two lined lovers gently holding  hands.
Beyond the limits of all human teaching
Beyond the reach of marching army bands.

A look, a glance, a word may touch us truly.
And we return the friendship with our eyes.
Anger should not bother us unduly
To retaliate is often to revive.

So in iambic  rhymes discover,
Conversation makes all humans lovers

From the BBC photos of current winter weather

Although the errors in the last post were made by the computer not me ,some were strangely apt.

The bit about “the children all paid respect to the dead and slept together until puberty “reminded me that after my dad died my sister and I slept in the bed where he died.I find it sad now but we didn’t talk about it.We were 8 and 6 then.
We got single beds after I began to menstruate.

It’s the free association of the software!

My microphone annoyed the one I love
So I  had  never used it  till he left
And now he is in heaven so high above
My voice will not annoy nor be a pest

In fact my lover died 2 years ago
 know I’ve been adapting to my fate
But even in the depths of Winter snow
I know what  many other losers know

That the one you love has gone and can’t return
That all your secret words  are now unshared
And though your heart with agony shall burn
You will not  let the neighbours hear one word

The memories, the cowslips by the stream,
The beach at Southwold, and the harbour call
Beyond the  happiness of love and  all her schemes
You live  alone behind a ten foot wall

That love is good,  few people will dispute
Let  love  be judged by nothing but its fruits