‘.…at these times, how I yearn
to be wrapped once more in
the loose muslin of infancy,
that let the whey through, but
not the curds, the berries but
no seeds…
I would pull them so very tight
and make a wish for something.
In winter cold despite log fire, my evenings spent in toasting self before the peats dug from bog moss, the glow of gluhwein coursing...
A visitor, unwanted, knocks, not mine the choice of whether stays, eviction can’t now be achieved, so how to greet this one at door, now...
The Gentleman’s club (This is so wrong on so many levels) There they all were in the Gentleman’s club, all gathered together, the great...
What wonderful imagery. Love this simple piece.
The loose muslin of infancy is a gorgeous choice
I mourn the world that is left to my offspring, and, fearfully, my part played within it. What is defined by the inevitable disappointments of age, and what by some impending sense of doom? "The old order changeth, yielding place to new. And God fulfils himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world." Or is that vain hope?