Tomorrow at daybreak, when the fields are pale
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will cross the forest, I will cross the hills
I cannot keep away from you any longer. Read more…
‘And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’
Matthew 7:3
- 1769 Oxford King James Bible ‘Authorized Version
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet! Read more…
November
by Thomas Hood
No sun–no moon!
No morn–no noon!
No dawn–no dusk–no proper time of day–
No sky–no earthly view–
No distance looking blue–
No road–no street–
No “t’other side the way”–
No end to any Row–
No indications where the Crescents go– Read more…
Well. I watched the start of it all with bated breath – who wouldn’t? First the allegations, then the sudden closure of the News of the world, then you had the circus like flan flinging which led to That Punch Up. It was spectacular beyond belief. Then it seemed to go a bit stale, like some sort of hackneyed bring out your dead scenario. Read more…
Streemin
im in the botom streme
wich means im not britgh
dont like readin
cant hardly write
But all these divishns
arnt reely fair
Look at the cemtery
no streemin there
Roger McGough
They stand, hand in hand, in the fading entrance. Dust spins, twirling gracefully in the weak sunshine; a tarnished chandelier winks lazily above their heads; cobwebs hang listlessly like strips of glimmering gossamer.
‘Wow,’ says Lindsey; her voice echoes unsteadily. She turns, flushed and breathless. ‘Oh it is just perfect. Imagine living here after the wedding…’
‘Hmm’, says Peter, shuffling his feet nervously. ‘How much are they asking for it?’
‘Not sure. But the potential…’ she says. ‘Oh; where did you put the key?’
Peter rummages fretfully in his pocket.
‘Is this what you are looking for?’
He turns; his eyes lock with those of an elderly woman, standing behind them. He shivers; she has a sort of silvery pallor; her eyes are a clear, cold blue.
‘It was on the table,’ she says, holding the key up.
‘Sorry, we let ourselves in…’’ gushes Lindsey, apologetically.
‘Not at all,’ says the woman. ‘Come,’ she says, waving one spidery blue veined, hand. A cold prickle runs down Peter’s back. Read more…
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