One of my early verses:
When, in the hidden days,
The whirlpools silver-swirled within the water,
Michael walked and climbed among the creeping ivy
Green beside the river deep;
He smiled and softly whispered in the shadow-sunny –
The water snails were black, and strange as sleep.
Great leaves grew red upon his crayon paper,
And wet-dry stones came home to live with him;
Then all the world was light, and all things living,
Through the days before the sun grew dim.
I suppose that is my equivalent of Wordsworth’s Ode: Intimations of Immortality.
Yes, the Wordy Hermit is back, the site is open again, and once more I shall hold forth on this and that topic to the amusement or amazement or bewilderment of my readers. This is my place to kick back and just talk about whatever strikes my fancy, so expect a wide range of sometimes seemingly-unrelated topics in the future.
David
