Tuesday 18 November

It is not about god
not in this human idea
these ideas sit on this ‘thing’
yet outside of it
and even nature
is an attempt at this pitch

a void has edges
something nothing contained

I am a mere mortal

travelling through a gap that is my life
in this silence
embellishing
and regretting

The wind has swung around to the north west, maybe north, it has a bite to it.
The change from the last few day’s is marked, there is no longer that still quiet atmosphere within the islands ( the brooding weather has come inside ). The distant sound of the surf, that slow menace yet soothing balm has given way to a fraught tension.

Watching clouds pass the window, the sun is begging to dip.
Out into the wind and up to the down.

The reason, for it here
all the stuff

looking for a moment

I found something last time, as did I today overlooking Samson.
But sometimes not where I think it or want it to lay.

I plod accross the tundra and wait.
the lanquid plod of a poet.
An artist in waiting, not siezing the day
.
The waiting game - not submerged in dispondancy.

I can’t seem to be able to make things happen which I wrongly construe as inadequacy.
Better to see one glimpse into the garden than nothing at all.

And this, this is a trick of the light.

I find

( the green light is on and light falling fast )