Emma's Portrait

In Time's Meadow

In Time's Meadow

There is a beatitude
In the timeless vale.
Where rhymes chime
And colours converse.

I walk there seldom.
Alone and not.
With canvass and quill.
The collective solitude.

And dialogue.
With perfect abandon.
Where even a glance
Utters its meaning.

There is a lot to be said
For not having to say.
A lot to rue,
Once it is said.

'Monday's Child'

Tom's Portrait

Between Time

Between Time

The world is awash
With breathless colours
Speaking chaos
To the hurried self.

This is life.
Ordained by others.
Orwell's regiments
Marching, grey and cold.

And then it appears,
By repentant chance.
An idle view
Of something free.

Like a child,
Brimming with simplicity.
A moment in harmony
With the precious, privy self.