Breeze-blown ripples on a barley field, feathers waving, weaving: golden yield; whispy clouds across the vast domed sky, dips and dells and hilly swells nearby …
It melted the tarmac, and buckled the rails, it dried up the pond, but the well never fails, it bleached out the lawn, left the farmers forlorn until a breath of a breeze
Overheard in a Post Office queue – “We’re off to Majorca, what about you?” … I’m hugging inside a thrill of my own – excitement which these may never have known
The meaning of life – before any strife was ever on record, ill-word ever heard: life’s Origin, Source knew its purpose, of course, for he had created, concocted for perfect contentment,
