Eight near the coast of the Celtic Sea, the blue canvas of the sky utterly cloudless, the air tinged with a morning chill and carrying a bit of a breeze, the birds busy elsewhere, the coffee decent tart and sweet, and I’m keen to hear and tell some simple truth today.
Ten by the coast of the Celtic Sea, a bright and mild Monday, the air tame, the birds busy, the coffee decent tart and sweet, and the news leaning positive, with the US back from its late insanity, EU partnership on the mend and Putin treated properly as the murderous thug he is.
Nine by the coast of the Celtic Sea, gray from the cottage to the far ridge with a fog and a drenched chill carried on a breeze, a gull gliding smoothly over the length of the lane into town, the coffee decent tart and sweet, and here’s market day on the road back from Covid.
When the cataclysms come,
They take Christians and
Atheists alike into the maw
Of sweet oblivion, the fate
Of all that live, from microbes
To behemoths, and the Cosmos
Of creatures in between,
Membership in the 700 Club
Notwithstanding, as is Written
In the strata of the aging Earth,
Plain for all to read.
Nine by the coast of the Celtic Sea, the sky undecided grays and whites, the air mild with a breeze, the birds having a break after a busy morning, the coffee decent tart and sweet, and we’ve arrived at a bank-holiday Monday, the tide of normalcy rising.