Walking into fall,
Falling into nothingness,
An opaque world,
All white and silver,
But the green grass underfoot.
And we are just as indistinct,
Like punctuation marks on a piece of paper.

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Light shafting through the trees,
Floods the landscape with warmth,
Highlights one spot on the forest floor,
And burnishes each leaf.

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Trees leaching leaves,
Which crumple underfoot.
A breeze from the west
Carries the scent of wet earth.
I’m just walking, walking,
In the rain.

Anna Karenina, a great heroine,
Who emerges full-fledged from the pages within,
Written by Tolstoy, as a lesson to all,
Of how, when we betray, we inevitably fall,
The trouble is, Tolstoy, like me and you,
In the course of his book, fell in love with her too!
A creature capricious, a woman quite flawed,
But with her in your life, you’d never be bored!
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You and me against the world,
Like a dormouse, inter-curled,
Our store set out, our flag unfurled,
Two bodies yet one heart.

Our home is safe, our home is calm,
A never-ending source of balm,
All who enter, feel its charm,
It is a place apart.

Things are really what they seem,
We make the perfect unit, team,
We share a future, share a dream,
Two bodies yet one heart.

Photo Anna Kunst

A beautiful work of art,
By George Zoggolopoulos,
Is on The New Promenade,
In Thessaloniki.
Marvel at its ingenuity,
And pray for sun!

A grey day,
A gloomy day,
All black and white,.
All monochrome.
A despondent, disappointed day.
The monotony is marked by rain,
Copious sheets of it.
And yet I’m cheerful.
The seat beneath me ,
The only splash of colour,
Lifts my spirits and makes me see anew.
The world is a blank canvas,
On which I can choose what to write…

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Lying beside you,
I feel an electricity,
A kinetic charge,
Even without touching.
But when you lie in my embrace,
Skin on skin,
I feel the heat of you,
The pulse beat of you,
And the velvet fur on your arms.
I feel passion,
I feel safe,
And I feel loved.

Photo.
nakedtruthsproject.com
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Banged up in bed, with a very sore head,
And a diet of daytime TV,
Selina and Fred
And a boy band called Red,
And a feature on Kalamazoo,
You’re in a morass, because the shows are quite crass,
And you sink into a slough of despond ,
Cookery shows give the only odd glows,
And the antiques, of which you are fond,
Back and forth to resusc with a minimum fuss,
Go the trolleys and the beds on the ward.
Machines that go plink, pills that fizz, blue and pink,
Or we just fall on our sword.
Beds are thin and unkind, pillows so hard to find,
So your head rests on a blanket or sheet,
You have tubes up your nose, and some stuff on your toes,
And god alone knows what they’ve done with your feet.
Your body’s on fire, you’re about to expire,
From the stifling heat round your bed,
So the air-con is on, more Banff than Saigon,
To turn you from scarlet to red.
You’ve a sore, itchy rash, like a bad pebble-dash,
And your blood feels like it may be on fire,
Plug you into a socket, you’d go off like a rocket,
“Light blue touch paper and retire”!

Photo: http://www.allergy-clinic.co.uk

Sunset at the end of summer,
In St. Petersburg,
Soft, diffused light,
Sifts through the fog,
And gently veils the buildings,
Across the river.