The forget me not blue of the sky and the lavender and damson etching of the bare woods sharpened as the sun went down.

Afterwards I sat sewing. The cottage was so quiet that I realized how it must be when I`m not in it. The clock ticked in the back kitchen, the fire settled, the sun shone through the windows.
Magriad Evans.

from November Night.

Listen....
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees
And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey.

Re'sume'.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp;
Guns arent lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Dorothy Parker.

There was a cold air like the wind from cherubs cheeks in the old maps, we shuddered off into the dusk, towards the beaded loops of soft yellow lights where the town straggled up its long hill to the church towers at the top.

Dust.

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the worlds delight,
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night....
Rupert Brooke.

This southern slice of Tuscany, with its veins of vineyards, softly rolling hills, olive groves and medieval hill towns unchanged since the Renaissance.

Fade to Black.

Life it seems will fade away,
Drifting further everyday,
Getting lost within myself,
Nothing matters, no one else,
I have lost the will to live,
Simply nothing more to give,
There is nothing more for me,
Need the end to set me free.
Metallica.

Southern Sunrise.

Colour of lemon, mango, peach
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies,
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower
pen sketch.

Bullet-Proof Poet.

He loved the most beautiful girl in the mist of wine,
A last kiss through his cigarette smoke, and she quietly
slipped off the edge of time.
Dogs D`Amour.

Romantic Suicide.

I have been half in love with easeful death.
John Keats.

Love Walked in.

Just about that moment, the timing was so right,
You appeared like a vision, sent down to my life,
I thought I was dreaming when I saw you that night,
Thats when love walked in through my door....
Thunder.

She is Far.

She is far from the land where her
young hero sleeps,
And lovers are around her sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze,
and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
Thomas Moore.

The Lamp and the Lute.

Wraiths that the scented breath of summer raises,
Ghosts of dead hours and flowers that once were fair,
Sorrel of nodding grass and white moon-daises,
Glimmer and fade upon the fragrant air.
Rosamund M. Watson.

Eternity approaches, swiftly marching on,
As life`s last breath deserts me I smile, and I am gone.

Hope Chest.

It is shaped
like a dunce cap
It is a bottle of perfume
at the foot of a cross.
It is a photograph
that hums.
It is early
It is day
It is a bed
no one has ever slept in.
It is just a dream.
It is a rosary of lentils.
It is the part you always forget.
It is a woman with an infinite number
of pages.
It is strictly off limits
except when it isnt
that being the hour when you
finally arrive
completely unexpected and gorgeous
as usual.
Elaine Equi.

Somewhere a dog barks, a soft gituar thrums. A shady bedroom with portugeuse tiles and drifting guaze draperies offers quiet sanctuary from the shimmering heat.

The old cowsheds were deserted, the corrugated roofs rusted red like dried blood and half hidden by elders which hung their musk scented lacey blossoms over the crumbled ruins.

The sky away over the city was yellow through grey, like old rubbed Sheffield plate, but the High street was bright with oranges and lemons.

Wisbech.

The river flowed thick and brown like melted chocolate through the ancient little town, its Georgian houses square and dignified, hung with purple wisteria and mats of dancing ivy.

I cant stay long.

London has a spirit too, it has beauty, moods, shades, atmospheres: lingering sharp blue November afternoons, heavy rose-pink Summer evenings, jaunty Spring mornings, and star-bright Winter nights.
Laurie Lee.