I find it
Almost always
A lesson as valuable
For the photographer
As for the pilgrim
A formation
Of pilings
Long past utility
Though still
They throw
A striking pose
Just before
The curtain
Falls
The rugged land
A windward lee
And as the ripples
Lap the shore
The air, it riffles
Through my hair
Now calm descends
Upon my brow
My heart
In gentle rhythm
With the waves
Sun warms my face
This life like art
No better hand
Could wield a brush
Paint such perfection
On my soul
how a brush stroke
or a phrase
can create
an icon
how few lines
or words
are required
to tell a story
and how every story
and every icon
means something different
to everyone
I find the steel
Within
To go on
He didn’t choose his friends
Everyone was welcome
And he played no favourites
But few weathered well in his company
Most faded quickly
In that radiant presence
I loved the bastard
And hated him
