Every person is a season

Every person is a season,

Spring people sit all winter

staring wistfully over the drifts

to worry about last Springs apple seedling.

Summer people are the first and last

to don (and shed) flip flops and tee shirts

filled with maxims and brand loyalty.

Winter folk are never happy,

unless waxing skiis or filling lungs

with noxious two-cycle oil fumes.

But Autumn people are the artists,

imagining paint daubs animated

in every falling leaf.

- mwLaw14

(attribution on image unknown - anyone know?)

16-09-14

 

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,

And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.

- Led Zeppelin 'Stairway to Heaven'

Potpourri From Facebook

Waiting On The High Ground

An older work it remains one of my favourites.

I believe...

I believe...
we exist beyond each other's eyes,
to transcend life not like an arrow,
but like a puffball in a western breeze,
we are born tiny footsteps on the staircase of life,
we die, alone, amongst a crowd of 7 billion,
and in between hope that after we have gone,
our name will remain on one person's lips,
craving immortality we cry at old movies,
crowfooted smiles
watching the children of strangers play,
if only for a brief moment in time
we can exist beyond each other's eyes...

- mwLaw14

Oritur...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas