If you can read my mind Why must I speak?

Do I need your permission

To turn the other cheek?

Forgive the pun, but I am a little horse......

My sunflowers are dry, which doesn't suit the admiral, here in Nelson Country.....

There's a tangle of knots on the horizon.  The days are shrinking; unlike my cares.....  I don't have priority on this but my knots are tangling more and more every passing day.  And here comes the darkness, as sure as the rising tide.

Nearer the shore there is a mix of sanderling and little ringed plover - how good they can share their burdens.

Sweet mouthfuls.  Is there anything more lovely?  Nature au naturel?

Not far away the North Sea (the German Sea?) reaches out across the wastes to a curving horizon beyond my grasp.....

It is blessedly quiet - in my opinion - after the drifts of holiday makers in the school recess, though this beach had the space (it was the approach roads that suffered). Today it is sparsely populated......

Maybe because the airways are reopening?

I am tried by paradoxes.  I love the simplicity of solitude.  But I am never alone.  And then I wish I was.  But then again I yearn company.  Except that too much is more than enough.

Give me space....

But don't desert me, Bird Friday with your dinosaur tracks.....

Well, God is in His heaven

And we all want what’s His

But power and greed and corruptible seed 

Seem to be all that there is

I'm listening to Bob Dylan's latest release: Springtime in New York - The Bootleg Series Vol.16 1980-1985.

Not everyone's preference - understood.  Times have moved on and it is my bad that I am rutted in this particular past.  

But then we all have our tender fragrancies,

And I can tell you one thing

Nobody can sing the blues

Like Blind Willie McTell

Bob Dylan

I still have a wonderful vinyl LP by Blind Willie McTell that I bought in Lancaster with my friend Ray Steele in 1969, on which there is the unforgettable song, Dying Crapshooter's Blues:

I want nine men going to the graveyard, bubba

And eight men comin back.....

I walked with Amanda by the high tide flooded road at Brancaster and saw the swallows amassing ready for their flights south.  Each and every one of us: swallow, man, woman, insect, fish....  has to live as best we can.  

Nine men may go to my funeral, and eight men may come back.  But then, in due course, those eight will be seven, and so it goes.....

I want a gang of gamblers gathered 'round my coffin-side

Crooked card printed on my hearse

Don't say the crapshooters'll never grieve over me

My life been a doggone curse

Blind Willie McTell

1898 - 1959