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Snowflakes swirl, fly, and dance, in the air,
as they slowly descend to the already white-covered floor-
billions of intricate and perfect frozen tears
dusting and blanketing the world before me.
It is like standing in the middle of a snowglobe.
No one can see anything in front of them,
everyone just jeeps going as best, as fast,
and as caustiously, as they can-
not letting the weather keep them in one place,
not even this unrelenting snowfall.
Seeing familiar landmarks veiled below frozen fields
that makes everything look indistinguishable from everything else,
a new world reveals itself, a new light shines, a new beauty arises,
the sky becomes the Earth, the Earth becomes the sky;
the sun is obscurred from view, all is bright,
and suddenly every-day things that you may sometimes miss
start to catch your eye.
A red british postbox has never looked more amazing
and glowing than against a white back-drop;
roads and motorways have never seemed more ghostly,
nor more other-worldly, than when you drive down them
in the middle of a blizzard,
when you are relying on the lights of the vehicles
in front of you to save you from coming to a sudden,
immediate, and perhaps costly stop.
Walking on what you cannot see,
walking on something that you have to constantly reteach yourself
how to walk on with every step,
makes you think more about your surroundings,
forces you to not take anything for granted,
and to expect the unexpected-
it doesn’t take much to take a false step in the snow below
and seconds later to find yourself in a skid.
In this weather you need to wrap-up warm, keep on the move,
stay dry, make the most of every shelter and cover that you come across,
don’t rush to wherever you are going, give yourself time, stay inside-
the snow can seem like a disruption if you have got somewhere to go;
but you cannot not appreciate its beauty, its magic,
its gift of contemplation-
nothing else opens your eyes to the world more wide.
Looking at the world, staring at the white cloud-covered sky,
at the snow-carpeted ground, and at the bare branches of the trees,
while wearing the biggest and the warmest coat that I could find
to protect me from the cold and the ice-
I look at where I am standing,
I look at the landscape that nature is remaking,
and I smile to myself at the thought that, as things stand right now,
this must be the most perfect winter wonderland that I have ever seen,
and it would be the most sublime snowman’s paradise.
As the sun rose over the fields of England,
I looked down on my home from a green hilltop high above
and I felt breathless, as I took in the view
of this peaceful and tranquil wonderland.
As far as my eyes could see, all that greeted me
was infinite hues of gold, green, blue, and white-
trees, farmland- apparent, and hidden life,
going on far beyond my sight.
I am by myself, but I do not feel alone-
this place is where poetry is seen and written about,
this place, this island of diversity and beauty, in all its forms,
is the place that I am proud to call my home.
I love my home, because it is everything to everyone-
it always has been this beacon for so many people over the years,
no matter where they have come from.
I love my home, because not only is it a beautiful
and an inspiring place to live;
but it is also somewhere that you can discover and rediscover,
it is a place with a heart and a spirit of its own,
it is a place that you can grow with.
Even though I have lived here my entire life,
I have not seen, and I do not know, everything about my country-
every new village, town, and city,
has a rich and a varied identity and history;
every person that you speak to for the first time,
only adds to our country’s charm, allure, magic, and mystery.
From above, England looks green, alive, thriving-
even in the majestic cities, that light-up the country from street to sky,
there is somewhere for everyone:
whether you want excitement, enlightenment, inspiration,
or just somewhere that you can take in as you roam-
England is the best country on the planet,
England is where I will always return to,
and it will always be my home.
Guitar pick poised; baton raised;
recalling that first note and how it is phrased.
A moment when the real world stops and turns into ‘Wonderland’,
as if you are standing in a desert being consumed by quicksand:
that moment when you, your art, your passion, your love,
become like the hand that perfectly fits the glove;
that moment when you- the maestro, the architect, the creator, the inventor-
become a god, a master, a hopeful machine of a world with you at the centre.
You are the DJ; you are the conductor;
you are the one that everyone has been waiting for.
In the beginning you create the rules, and tease what is yet to come;
and while you have your orchestra and audiences undivided attention,
you take them back in time with you to the dawn of your awakening-
that time when the world was new, and you didn’t want to miss a thing.
But then you stop, then you face them, then you convey to them the truth:
you tell them what happened when you put the last card on your house of cards’ roof.
You resight; you reinvite; you rebuild, as if you were rebuilding the entire world-
you remind them that there is always hope, even after your reality has been unfurled.
You take them on a journey with you that seems to have no end:
a journey where you can be who you are, and you no longer have to pretend.
However, when the end does come, it is over before you know it-
the people who were so engrossed in you have returned to their lives and split.
Where do you go when your orchestra, band, audience, and fan’s leave:
back to your own words, music; book cover, or album sleeve?
Or, do you go back to where it all started;
back to where inspiration first imparted;
back to the beginning; back to the big bang:
back to the moment when you first played, loved, wrote, and sang.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 