Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry


Here, in the clearing, where she sleeps
With no cover, no house, no walls, no roof,
She lingers in the grasp of the spells she
Casts over the crumbling skeletons
Of what has been before, stretches
Her hair, her body, across the grass,
So smooth, so soft, closes her eyes
To see the whole world before her.

She is the mother of this,
The single point of origin where
All things come from.
She is the goddess
Of all that grows,
And the seasons can’t touch her.

R 19/03/2023 19:34

The walk to meet A halfway on her way back from work; the colder than expected air; getting my teeth into the Aggie edit; the brilliance of the song that was my Hottest Record In The World on Friday (and now on repeat as I write this) and the surprise it springs when I do more research into it; the concern for new music and its artists in the BBC’s closure of local radio stations; how sacrilegious it feels to be reading Remarque while I breakfast and lunch.

Brief impressions of another weekend flown by. And so many more words I want to read.

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