take my hand and climb with me…

one hundred and forty three degrees: ‘to risk…’

Open ~ The Waterboys

one hundred and forty three

A hundred, years. Of poetry. Rest between, two. Blank, books. Patiently, wait. Closed. Twin blooddrums, beating. For fingers, weaving. Four feet, dancing. In, time. A bud, tightly furled. Slowly, unfolding. To fill, long silent. Pages, with love.


Open to the new…

4 comments on “one hundred and forty three degrees: ‘to risk…’

  1. countingducks
    February 21, 2013

    Ok I’m being silly here, but I can'[t work out what that card is resting on. I keep peering at it and squinting my eyes but it’s not helping

    • circulartree
      February 22, 2013

      All the attention is being drawn to the books… the little literary cairn is resting at the oak’s base so simply a jumble of leaves, twigs and acorns. You’re not missing anything I promise, Peter! 🙂

  2. Torrun
    February 21, 2013

    Then again thoughts can outlive their creator(s) and exist beyond a hundred years… 🙂

    • circulartree
      February 22, 2013

      That’s what I love about writing… the words, once written are free to roam the earth forever. Long after whoever penned them has dissolved into dust.

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This entry was posted on February 20, 2013 by in Summer and tagged , , , , , , .


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