The Writes of passage

Charlie Montford, or " Monty" to his friends, and to his enemies for that matter, bent to his task, his back creaking as he lifted the nearly whole dog end from the roadside kerb. There could be rich pickings by the bus stop on the High Street. The weary looking shoppers perpetually tested the theory that if you lit up a cigarette, it would make the bus appear. The veracity of this idea had a direct correlation to Monty's overall wellbeing. The warm, dry Summer had dispensed with the rigmarole of drying out wet tobacco to incorporate into his tin and the bus queues gifted him with barely smoked cigs which were good to just  light up, needing no processing. His weather beaten face folded itself into a grin as he pondered on whether to light up now or save it until he had rustled up a brew from somewhere. Decision made, he fumbled around the many pockets of his sun bleached combat pants for any one of several lighters stowed about his person. You can't  have enough ligh...

The clock, does not Tic Toc When you're lonely, and in love It whines and grinds like oil less gears And thumps the seconds into your ears. Whine......thump! Grind..... thump! Whine......thump! Time passes by so slowly When you're lonely, and in love.

Change is permanent  Leaves will fall Iron rusts Babys born The seeds of change will settle on the will of the wind  New leaves  Fresh iron  Babys born Change is permanent 

Young 'Un           As i meandered through the nostalgic part of my brainbox one day, I came across a small boy. Pencil skinny he was and afflicted with ubiquitous grubbiness. A light grey schoolshirt, button missing, drifted in and out of dark flannel shorts, the pockets of which only he knew, or wanted to know the contents of. His face was made out of grime and freckles, a touch of snot and a large dollop of curiosity which was etched across sharp, blue eyes. Dirt crusted knees, the left bearing a large brown scab, which no doubt would be receiving some attention later, were the things propping up this morsel of a lad. Black, wooly socks struggled to cling to pale, wiry calves, in fact, one gave up and slithered down to the half mast position. Scuffed brown sandles finished off the bottom of the little boy, while carrot coloured, curly, wild hair topped him off and made him look like a badly labelled firework that had gone off unexpectedly.     ...

 Yugen A pair of Barn Owls wheel and skrike in a wraithlike reel. Their ghostly bodies soar and dive as twighlight heralds days decline. At it's zenith, star speckled midnight blue softens into amethyst. Amethyst pales into robust lilacs as the boiling sky reaches for the horizon. Lilacs flux and smelt onto the burnt orange of the gloriously perishing Sun. As the World works through its joy and wretchedness, in each of its rotations. The people pray and dream and laugh and cry, craving love and fearing death. Seeing the Universe in all its fairness and lack of fairness. They await inevitable entropy and definite demise. They sigh. What deity in his omniscient affection would bestow upon me such an ability. To perceive simultaneously the breathtaking splendour and the aching pointlessness. There is no revelation here, no karma, no absolution. There is no Yin and Yang here my friend, just pure beauty in all its unfathomability. It is burdensome and i am tired.