Perceptions Change as we move our way between the myriad pools of inspiration that lie scattered within the landscape of our many coloured land.
Vistas shift and fade, in and out of conscious thought as requirement and time shift far beyond our own control.
That, which in this moment seems so precious, previously hidden by dark grey shadow and only within the one cycle of our heavenly solar star, now rises as the phoenix, bright golden splendour from the ashes of our vision.
I have the Hawk's sight today, nothing escapes these watching eyes, silent sentinel high above the affairs of men, unnoticed hidden within plain sight, unseen for there are no eyes that wish to see, time and tide wait for no man they say and then their lives are gone, those tiny sparks that fly around the great fire, gone in an instant, the only signature a pit full of refuse covered in earth to mark the passing of wasted potential, the saddest epitaph of all.
But high above this madness I see perfection, sublime beauty stretches out before me on all horizons, the green grass of our glorious England, patchwork sky cerulean blue , the grey criss cross tracks of civilisations travel, all so small from up here.
Heaven and hell, the doors are wide open, in a time long passed, when such divine gifts were abused by a younger man, in search of other, found only confusion within the abuse of the heavenly Soma. Strangely it may seem that this vision shares a truth with that history, a connection to the void that remains out of reach for time and space.
Bright sunlight, cuts through the trees, blazing rays of light dance between the shadow falls, each leafy blade when touched by the sun seems as steel edge, corrupted copper and acid green, a collective all ready to leap to earth, the fall of all those who would attempt to touch the sun, the infinite sons of Icarus, poised and waiting, doom awaits and willing they will fall.
The grass below soaked in sweat from the fall and rise of Lucifer passing, I see a thousand million individual drops each one resting upon its own personal elven blade, some share yet separate from their kin, fantastical iridescence, all the shades of the artists pallet and more, the eighth, the one colour that is life itself, that one pigment that human kind has striven to master, eluding him still, for that is in the hands of the gods and not even Prometheus sought to steal that from them. Fire may belong to man but never that spark within life which truly colours this world.
I see perfection in the confusion, all of life,s petty machinations, the concerns of the social classes lie far beyond me in this perfect moment, untouched, pure soul, watching, reaching out, burning inside with love, stretching far that open heart in what is perhaps a vain hope that I can hold this moment, and I can.
Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.