Literature
Autumnal Murmurings
My eyes reflect in the curling waters, that flow unchallenged under the footbridge, flowing on, swirling and carrying the leaves of lost tenderness, of the year passed, and caressing the bright half moon, see it so soon, see the tender bright moon. My eyes catch the chill in the air, that is not so cold as it it could be, and spider webs hang laden with pearls. Where does the night end? The blackness far outreaches the imagination. Out stretching night, Pointing fingers within the leafless hedges and trees, leafless, but not wordless. The brook chatters with the spirits, and casting spells under stars the scene shifts focus and I am drawn deeper, drawn into the many currents, like life, life thoughts, like the inter marriage of breath and being. But where must we go now? 'Where' is a new world, a world that is far removed from the concrete cities of endless hassle and fractious noise. And so.... Where does the night end? Out stretching night, Pointing fingers within