This rumination came from growing awareness of my mortality which, in turn, is generated and measured by the expanding list of things once given or assumed that, alas, are no longer possible.

The Mirror

How shall I talk to you, my friend?

How should I regard you

(and will I care)

as you grow ever older before my gaze

while I stay young?

Who are you? Dare I look on yo...

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This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

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"... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...

— John Donne, Meditation XVII.

Saint Christopher Bell

We seem to be collectors

of memories and junk,

piles of the stuff;

both kinds lean against damp walls

in self-support, waiting

for purpose,

finding little but ...

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