Nothing like poetry when you lie awake at night. It keeps the old brain limber. It washes away the mud and sand that keeps on blocking up the bends.
Like waves to make the pebbles dance on my old floors. And turn them into rubies and jacinths; or at any rate, good imitations.
Mots clés poetry waves sand mud gulley-jimson jacinths pebbles rubies sleepless-nights
This was supposed to be yesterday. I was sitting on the Cardiff/London train, supposedly about to write this very column, and realising something quite terrible. My head was entirely empty. A vast echoing void. Bigger on the inside, but with nothing in it. You could drop a pebble in my brain and wait for an hour to hear it land. No actually, you couldn't - that would be aggressive and unhelpful, so keep your damn pebbles to yourself.
Steven MoffatMots clés humor writing humour magazine doctor-who train pebbles
from RIVER
My body is filled with sand. The heavy grains flow from my eyes and seek somewhere to fall.
Speak to me friends. Tell me I am free to go now, for I need to sit alone in the sun on the river bank, juggling pebbles.
Mots clés eyes bank river sand pebbles
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