(one week on from 13^th November 2015)

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if

whilst idly turning pages

in an anthology

absorbing titles and maybe

the shape of a poem,

though not the essence

or its density or detail,

or if,

whilst wandering through a gallery

gazing at the small print beside paintings –

the name, the date,

and passing the frame

with only the vaguest impression of colour,

blasted by the hurry of our own small needs,

but leaving behind

points of light, the point

of those magical brushstrokes,

wouldn’t it be wonderful if

we might come to understand

what it truly is

to be human, the complexities

and, perhaps, how we owe it to ourselves

to pause, to delve a little, to learn,

like now, thinking about

the world

and all its rage

and titles that say something

but are only a small indication of the whole

inclining us…