Mammatus clouds

Storm on the way

Billy

Sigma 18-50mm F2.8 macro

Testing phone upload

Mini Clubman

Testing PixelPipe (thanks Alfie and pace JC100000) :D

Boo

Webby corners
Spider eyes
Telegraph and fang surprise.

Wave function

I am intoxicated by existence.
To have 70 years out of the uncountable billions,
To see the universe so young, is a gift beyond value.
I am suddenly conscious of the atoms that make me up
And the ever-shifting pattern of them that is me.
Like a standing-wave in some hyperdimensional flow
We are here, waiting for that final time the current flicks.

Carpe Diem

Some words came to me today,

But since I didn’t write them down
They’ve gone away.

Stars

I see the stars I’ve missed so much
In a dark sky
From my bedroom window,
While a distant train
Rattles its way across the fens.
This pocketful
Strewn across the black
Has the carried heat
Of a corner fire,
Unclenching my city-banded heart.

Glances

There is a care in glances
That casts out fire from the soul.
It connects two sparks of light
As they fly together through the dark
And says, however deep the night,
However fierce the storm,
If you see me,
You are home.

Supper?

Oh mouse, Oh mouse,
Oh tiny shadow-dweller of my house,
What death is thine,
What, sings the bluebottle its mournful song?
What of thy kin?
The million hordes,
Scratching a dirge 'neath the skirting boards.
A wake needs food,
Cheese perhaps?
On a little table?
Watch out, it...
Snaps.

I.

Cool liquid, pitch.
Bright, wet.

Holding the summer stars
On its surface.
Catching them
In its darkness

And giving them names.

Aftermath

We live in a world of ghosts.
An aftermath.
The Age of Mammals. Great.
We cannot see past the "ordinary" to what was lost.
We look at trees whose sharp and bitter leaves
Avoid the meal they will never be,
And branches that grow high to escape
Mouths that will never reach for them.
We listen to a dawn chorus that has lost its baritones.
I miss those ones I've never heard.
And wonder how it would have been
To look into the eyes of Troödon,
Or out of them.

Grief

Grief is not about sad words,
Or eyes filled with tears,
But about empty places
That will never be filled again.
It throws up words, like white wood
Left by the sea on lonely sand;
Bones, cast upon the pale clay of the soul;
Struck from me like sparks from stone,
Falling unheard into darkness.
A wondrous fire has gone out,
and, all understanding lost,
I gaze into the ashes, cheeks unwet,
Unseeing; soul waiting for the dam-burst.