I could never piece together
these jumbled jigsawed sand grains
and here comes the sea
to chaos any illusion of order
I often walk on the beach at Oddicombe and imagine all the grains of sand rubbing along next to each other. I suppose if the poem is about anything it is our human desire to give the world an order we understand. If only we could...
the cling-film sighs, resigned as it is to wrapping brushes
and so back to the staid darkness of the kitchen drawer
the paint scraper's blunted edge from increased labour
is content to dream, until it cuts again
the walls try out this new colour
uncertain, but with no choice
the wardrobe, the chest of drawers
and this table I write on, will welcome the quiet
There's appears to be, in the words of Carl Rogers [and his brother Roy], a bit of conditional positive regard going on in the song.
Until next time.