new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
False dawns so evanescent, like all illusions.But will it still be there, waiting for us?Delayed vision can prove abrasive, hindsight a kind of scraping away the eye-rust, our grubby little fists digging in those deep empty sockets. Ah, there's the rub.
After reading this I had to find my socks and pull them back on. Then I read it again. May as well go barefoot until I can stop reading this poem! Maybe tomorrow will be safe for socks....
Tom, Aye, delayed vision, we knew it well but alas too late and we can bet the grubs will be busy rubbing it in.Joe,Unbelievable—Hutchison aka Barefoot Boy with Cheek! Thank you for socking it to me with your usual generosity. I'm kayoed plenty.