Photo & Poem Gallery

                                                                                         Everything is perfect, dear friend.
                                                                                        —KEROUAC

Look at me, I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree
And I feel like I'm clinging to a cloud, I can't understand
I get misty, just holding your hand
Walk my way, and a thousand violins begin to play
Or it might be the sound of your hello, that music I hear

I HAVE not told my garden yet,
Lest that should conquer me;
I have not quite the strength now
To break it to the bee.

I will not name it in the street,
For shops would stare, that I,
So shy, so very ignorant,
Should have the face to die.

I HAVE not told my garden yet,
Lest that should conquer me;
I have not quite the strength now
To break it to the bee.

I will not name it in the street,
For shops would stare, that I,
So shy, so very ignorant,
Should have the face to die.

Who’s this—alone with stone and sky?
It’s only my old dog and I—
It’s only him; it’s only me;
Alone with stone and grass and tree.
 
What share we most—we two together?
Smells, and awareness of the weather.
What is it makes us more than dust?

What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;

Into the sunshine,
    Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing,
    From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,
    Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
    When the winds blow!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,

In the morning the city
Spreads its wings
Making a song
In stone that sings.

In the evening the city
Goes to bed
Hanging lights 
Above its head.