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To me, this is a dream spot. A lone white house, surrounded by green, at the edge of the sea. On the cliffs above is a little whitewashed town, and just off to the left is Worm’s Head. A place to live, to write, to love.
Rhossili, Wales.
Quote of the day: “If a thing loves, it is infinite.” – William Blake
Daily gratitudes:
Soft nightgowns
Darkness
Phillipe’s advice
My favorite cowboy boots
Aspen eyes
Today’s guest poet – Greg Hewitt
Beyond The Pane
The frescoed cloister is closed.
No echo of omniscience
escapes to wind or metaphor.
A cottage holds three bowls,
earthen and chipped, on a table
made of planks smoothed by the surf.
One holds buttermilk;
another, tomatoes pale as moons;
the third, eggs the color of sand.
On the sill you would place a globe
of ivory roses to echo
the dolphin skull beyond the pane,
and think how sonorous, how bold,
this science of solitude.
