I am an artisan of words Which I sculpt, chisel and fashion the way I can; I am a creator of worlds; I pour my emotion into the poems I write. I breathe life into them, blow them skywards And finish them only when they sound right.
These remnants of thought without reason Will remain on pages season after season Long after I'm gone; when my task is done The love, the longing, the pain Will be evoked then by somebody else Who in turn will remember and write again To create another slow soft song That people can read and draw into their hearts Then pillowed by words, cushioned by dreams My poems will ride high the moonbeams.
Copyright: Rani Turton 2007
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Old Tap on Old Wall
This old tap and basin was been integrated into a decor, which is often the case in France.
Old stones. Old labors. Crumbling. Dust awaiting. The plants, growing, showing their colors. The sun, the wind, the weather, taking away one, giving the other. A portrait of both. Well captured. You camera lens also write poetry.
1 comment:
Old stones. Old labors. Crumbling. Dust awaiting. The plants, growing, showing their colors. The sun, the wind, the weather, taking away one, giving the other. A portrait of both. Well captured. You camera lens also write poetry.
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