I have dipped my hands
in the well of all creativity.
I have marvelled at the
ethereal grace of Fonteyn.
Become lost to the world
in the music of Schubert.
Gazed in wonder on the
perfection of Rodin; and
become transported to
another place, another age,
by the exquisitely detailed
brush of Constable.
But none are more precious,
or more joyously uplifting
than the lines of a
beautifully crafted poem.
For it will flow across the
pages of time everlasting.
Be sweet music to the eye.
An unchanging celebration
to the why of our existence;
and every colour the mind
could possibly imagine.
in the well of all creativity.
I have marvelled at the
ethereal grace of Fonteyn.
Become lost to the world
in the music of Schubert.
Gazed in wonder on the
perfection of Rodin; and
become transported to
another place, another age,
by the exquisitely detailed
brush of Constable.
But none are more precious,
or more joyously uplifting
than the lines of a
beautifully crafted poem.
For it will flow across the
pages of time everlasting.
Be sweet music to the eye.
An unchanging celebration
to the why of our existence;
and every colour the mind
could possibly imagine.
