Chicks in a nest, in springtime, Squawking for food

Beaks pointed vertical, the mother, a scavenger,

Who regurgitates, on demand. ………

This is a work-in-progress in England, any time, over the past few thousand years. ……

Take another route to the same destination:

Some writing is not about something,  it is something, in itself:

A frightened elfin expression of how first we feel and then, how indubitably, we fail. ……..

Under the shadow of the shelter of trees

We listen to the birds, singing at their ease in this mild breeze.

Of late spring. Later, we lizzzen to these beeez

Who scrape a living in the unacred blue. …..

This will do for me and will do wonders too

As we battled through this solstice of a late December eve.

So unhinged as it is unleavened! …..

Some lives just drift into this or that conclusion (Others just quit)

And these endless queues for 'provisions' by the worried well

Thatcher's generation - the devil take the hindmost all that....

Mix the  rhymes with the reasons. ……..the plurality of a  nameless fear

Which we. occasionally, sniff as we go about our ordinary lives. ……

O! It’s heaven when it rains, a mother’s refrain is always the same

As  love of life is an uneven bliss under this unvaulted sky

Where you and I unstring the pearls

Of all the years

Then drop them plonk  into this chain of words......