Jst bloody wonderful playing

Grassmere in February

Black's Pond.

Click on the image to see it all

Prey!

A lonely hawk perused its lot,

wings arched against the breeze.

The vole saw just a tiny dot

He hovered with such ease.

He never tired of this sensation,

sandwiched between cloud and ground.

The purpose filled his contemplation,

to take the quarry, without sound.

The keenest eyes had found their mark

But something had to give.

The hawk had lost the urge to kill

But not the will to live.

To cream, the implausible dreams.

The driftwood of dreams

Ebbs and flows

Spins in waltz time

Sinks and surfaces

Brushes and barges into

The life-boat of dull reality

Each nightly dip

to don the jacket

and venture a little further

Gnawing at the tethers of tedium

Challenging convention for all your worth

Is this our legacy?

Spin doctors of the surreal

or translators of the image

Yet to be seen

Yet to be shared?

Ask one who has cut the safety line

Do they really want to reach the shore?

When the view beyond the breakers

could offer so much more?