Deer caught in a storm. Olympic runners wreathed in smiles. Sea captains smelling of salt. Fish floundering. Songs. The sun in the eyes on a day when no sunshine was forecast. Patience. Leg warmers made of synthetic wools. Pink biros no one uses. The demi-john filled with old plastic bits-and-pieces and used as a door-stop. Ardent love making.
A quiet bird. The dead, bright eyes of a thrush. Leaves falling in a breeze and swirling around catching one is a fairy-storm. Journalists who die to bring us the truth. “And simple truth miscalled simplicity.” The writers who thought as I do and those who did not. Warnings of times gone. Too many ice creams. Too few friends. A cluttered desk of wood.
Make a poem of chaos. Make chaos something understandable. Discernible. Beautiful. Memorable. Then have a hot cup of weak tea and watch the clouds spell out their favourite names. Clouds know, they have been watching for centuries.