Shame I was driving to work rather than heading for the hills when thinking of this nonsense...
Gazza's back in rehab.
A ruse to foil the courts.
His ex is in the jungle,
A celebrity of sorts.
Meanwhile back in Gateshead,
The fog is on the Tyne;
And on this frosty autumn morn
It's not all his, it's mine.
Impressive stuff! Like itOriginally Posted by Old Whippet
:thumbup: Love it!
I like it OW
Surfing
It's not the waves you catch,
How hard or how strong.
It's the wind in your hair,
The ocean's song.
Knowing you can't,
Almost certain you can.
Endless blue,
With a bare sight of land.
Getting to know the oceans,
Dolphins and fish your friends.
Too many mistakes,
That you need now not mend.
The loss of all worries,
The bad, the worst.
Nothing is practiced,
Nothing rehearsed.
The surfer's only knowledge,
Of what's going on,
Is the coming of the waves,
In the wake of the dawn.
Had a go at surfing once, wasn't pretty!
I liked this Steve did you write it? ...by the way i love your new signature! I couldn't agree more, i don't usually look forward to new years eve but this year is going to be very different!!!!
Bout time you started witing again ol hound :thumbup: like it...a lot
Apparently Dante Gabriel Rossetti loved his wife (who was incidentally an artist in her own right) so much that he buried with her unpublished poems when she died at a young age of ill heath and laudanum addiction...how romantic eh?...well, er not that romantic it turns out as at a later date (7 years later to be precise) he had her remains dug up so he could publish the poems after all!!!!!!....here's one...
Sudden Light
I HAVE been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore. Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Siddal
Last edited by freckle; 16-11-2010 at 10:43 PM.
Interesting links. Yes the Harry Ree.
As far as I know he didn't run the fells. And stayed low when he had a heart attack, hence "no fell walking now", but he was a great three peaks man and his book is a real treasure with evocative black and white photos.
I wrote the first draft at least 25 years ago and every now and again I have another go at making it right as with everything else.
At his funeral a few of us followed the "green cable" to the top of Ingleborough and poured French red wine (what was left of it) over the summit cairn.
The Runner
(with thanks to Neil Harding McAlister - and modified to suit me)
Your urgent, crunching footfall down the faint sheep track,
Grows fainter as you disappear into the setting sun.
Your painful gasps I almost feel, as twilight skies fade black,
But you will practice breathlessly ‘til many miles are run.
I shield my burning eyes to watch your small, lithe silhouette
Dash silently along the path as nightfall swallows day.
The moon hangs in the sky, although the sun has not quite set,
And child, I feel afraid, because you seem so far away.
When you were only five years old I jogged right by your side
Just slow enough to let you win the race and share your fun.
Then you grew tall and strong; and soon it filled me with such pride
To watch you speed ahead and fly as I had never run!
You traded in your booties for an athlete’s running shoes.
Somewhere I’ve got those Inov8s I bought the day that you were born.
While you run forward, I look back, amazed at how you grew:
A father’s coming sundown is his daughter’s brilliant morn.
When was the last time that you took my hand to cross the street?
Or ran to me in glee when you were playing on our lawn?
The childhood firsts come scampering on noisy, little feet;
But last times creep up quietly -- then quietly, they’re gone.
Could this young, graceful runner, who will be a woman soon,
Have been the helpless baby whom I cradled in one hand?
Now, heedless of the gathering dark, beneath this autumn moon
You pound a firm, determined pace while night enfolds the land.
Someday when my skies darken, perhaps thoughtless men could say,
“He was not famous, rich or wise. What great things has he done?”
From mortal limitations we can never run away;
But when I squint with failing eyes into that setting sun,
And see you running in Life’s race,
No matter who might claim first place,
I’ll know that I have won.
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