Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
Gotta. Gonna. Wanna.
The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.
Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?
Play, pleigh, puhley.
O’er th’aural landscape rest the guiding waves.
P’rhaps we won’t stop anymore, now there’s no space – seat or floor.
I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
Just what love is; just what it means.
Somestuff to present to whomsoever ever reads it.
A gaze a-gaze across the fold.