Wednesday, April 25, 2012
For Robert Burns
With wit like glittered waters
To kiss an auld grey Scottish day
And woo her wives and daughters
A man could be a prince with that
A plowman of all pastures
From high to low they'd come and glow
Sweet lassies, words departed.
Impossible Gift This is not the smoke of colonial rod of scarred encampments, the prodding stick, of the fires where infants ...
A rare sighting of the Shy Bald Headed Steve Buzzard, alongside Eadaoin, Kirsten, with myself in the background. A surprise birthday de...
The old gods all dead now they lie scattered in the ruins like statues headless and chipped deaf and dumb the gongs and drums and thr...
There's an Angel of Mercy where Christ boils his billy looks over the waters and beckons to me And the cliff tops all sparkle, a...