I see that neither muse nor pen is spent.
Art ‘n poetry.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
I do wonder…
A dragon’s hide.
Creation pained; a look that’s lost, or hid…
No calligraphy you’ll lay that isn’t art.
Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?
O’er th’aural landscape rest the guiding waves.
Take syllabic space ‘n empty it of possibility.
Words like water…
Better sung, better danced, better played.
Onto prophets by the fire and the knowledge gleaned from that.
Will it be as the still air?