|"O Soul, be changed into liittle water drops" From Visual Counterpoint|
Ref ‘O soul, be changed into little water drops
And fall into the ocean, ne’er to be found:
My God, my God, look not so fierce on me.’
Music embraces the echoes of dreams,
I listen and hear the past as it passes
Over my face on gossamer wings,
So silently it sings,
While sand falls within glasses,
Life follows timeless streams.
The river writes the story for the dead,
With rhythms that carry soul,
From every beginning to one just end,
This watery grave must send,
All to pay the final toll,
For innocence blindly led.
No drop of water falls, but will save
The earth from that, which would rise
To create a mountain none can climb
From deepest hell to a sky sublime,
Rain carries from the heavens this prize,
To be offered on every ocean wave.
The slightest sound will be sought,
When the wind becomes merely a breeze,
That rocks the boat on an ordered swell,
Within which the storm must dwell,
Before this ferocious force will seize,
All space above and below nought.
|'GROWING INTO THE ROLE' From Visual Counterpoint|
|'BEAUTY'S BRIDAL BOUQUET' From Visual Counterpoint|
I have had a particularly difficult day with sound having been driven from my early morning walk with the dogs by a deafening noise, some kind of siren, (before 9am on a Sunday!) that made me feel totally sick and almost made me fall into the canal.
This has been followed by the usual onslaught of bells and whistles when I tried to shop for the dog’s food and is finished by my neighbour cutting his lawn with the cheapest noisiest mower he could purchase to within a nano centimetre of its’ life.
This day is one like so many now that I shall drown in alcohol. That way I will hopefully not remember it.