The pathways to the heart are learned by love

And those who find this knowledge never lose.

Though virtue and her graces help us from above

All we see are hills and rocky views.

With willingness to cross the seas of mud,

To drag ourselves through tangled briar-filled woods.

Our soul shows us the truth and what is good,

For trees that looked quite dead are now in bud.

With wild flowers kissing feet and blessing toes

Encouragement is finally received

And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,

We know our gladdened hearts were not deceived.

For Virgil, fortune favours those with steadfast feet.

The journey may be long, the end is sweet.

Note: The saying “Fortune favours the brave” is attributed to several people..Virgil, Pascal, Montaigne are ones I have found

Bought for a shilling

We bought Dad a biro for 12 pence

He told us children we were very dense

When something is new it may have many flaws

In any case a pen is not a toy

I was quite surprised by his desire

I thought toys were for children, I’m a liar

I had seen seeing him playing with my toys

Doing jigsaw puzzles, I’m annoyed.

Can I love a man who loves my dolls.

In the winds of age I hear him call

I am older now than he was then

A biro could be useful to man

He played like a child for half an hour

I should not judge others when I’m sour.

Daddy died of cancer I was nine

So the long sad days of mourning were no crime

I Witnessed a Murder. Is It Wrong to Write About It?

It’s worth recalling that “tragedy,” a word we use to describe events like this one, originally designated a literary genre, a form of storytelling. Whatever is going on in us when we experience a tragic narrative — Aristotle wasn’t the last to speculate about it — we surely learn something about our own emotional repertory; it may serve as a rehearsal of our responses to actual horrors. Classic novels have taken inspiration 

In between the silence and the song

The beach between the low tide and the high

Treasures gather on the pale washed sands

Driftwood shells beneath remorseless clouds

Adults play for safety staying dry

Lightly loved the children’s little hands.

I don’t like the raw sand of the dunes

The tide fling salty water to the sky

Smashing shells make modernistic tunes

Creation and destruction undismayed.

Co-creators in the healing seas

All the laws of gravity obey

Inspiring music as the waters breath

.In between  the silence and the song

The pity of the heavens in mercy hangs

Don’t read this

The feel of his lips on her throat made her want to fall into a quicksand and vanish for ever

The feel of his hand on her shoulder seared through her like a mouthful of boiling tea had scalded her throat,

The feel of his arms around her went through her like the touch of a cat sleeping on her bare legs

The sight of his unshaven face affected her as much as if he were hitting her with a frozen dead cat.

He had less humour than a poisonous spider in a plug hole in the bath.

He tried to touch her heart but she was wearing too many layers..

He wanted to remove her pants but she knew they would not fit him

The feel of his thumb on her knee passed as fast as a burning Camel crossing a motorway on steroids

The smell of his Tweed jacket assailed her like the smutty grey fog in Liverpool in the 50s.

His grip was as fierce that of a female tiger with her cub.She felt wanted.Now she has killed him and she really is wanted by the police.

His strong warm hands reminded her of when mother changed her nappies 47 years ago.She never thought sh would feel like that again.

The feel of his tongue on her cheek was worse than a frost bite in Alston in a bad winter.

His shirt brushed over her bare skin like sandpaper on velvet.

What a rip off.