About time

It's about time that I added some note to this blog that I'd once so lovingly dedicated to the cause of poetry, sliced into meaning uttered out of need, images of beasts that sting and so on to keep them back and invisible amongst the dark parameters that surround the safety of fire.

Well I've not written a word for some time. Anyone whose ever been here and read, and I know that those of you responsible for such an act of graciousness are less than the word 'minority', would have gathered that my token words, brandished against the agonies such as they are when one falls in love in a field of stones, are what they are. I am now however currently poor of muse and living life without that screaming fertile soil, bouncing along a fresh road, lined with the buds of early summers bright drifting blossoms and have an old friend back instead (or so it seemed; note in hindsight).

I might as well, I considered, here in the depths of East London and soaking in a bath write something to keep the wheels a little busy. It's not poetry is it, this? (As for the rest?) I need to write somewhere and this small plinth of oratory is it. No point in being too precious. And so it is.