In this, there are none

It is hard when the tumult of thoughts cascade and dash themselves upon worn ways. Stubborn to change, fighting against attrition. They jump away like the rabbits, fly with the pegasi and glide with the whales. They know the deep and they know the heights. They flitter like undecided insects, unsure of which place to go, butted by the wind. When they cause slow raging storms, the pressure can make you whistle like a kettle chugging away at full steam in the crater of a dormant volcano.

That's when you get sense like this. It has no sense, but the urge to find a crack. Find the weakness. Blow the chink and then WHOOSH. It's out there. No one need see. No one need know. It's not about the words as such. Nor is it about the content. It's about the flow and surge, the pull and gurgle of the tidal waves dragging on the shore. It's the crunch of the twigs beneath the feet, the stinking hot and stale air that doesn't seem to move, no matter how fast you run. It's the sharp scented current that whispers past you nose and pats your memories on the head, telling of the child who just earned their favourite dinner for getting A grades in every subject.

In the typing of the fingers and the satisfying squish-stop of the keys, in the unending tap-tapping of the keyboard and the hard disk's fanning wheeze; there the pictures flow from the brain image to the the metaphor, and in the midst of rushing stormy word-winds the presence is in the fore. Liquid trickling, dancing in the light and glittering in attention, little ideas flit and glow, being butterflies alight on windy toes. Here the stomp of Goliath's footsteps alerts of coming danger, but there David's mighty 30 stand ready at attention. With Words of power the dark is held, with songs of victory the nagger flails, and with the truth the liars mouths are stopped. Stuffed. Gobsmacked and speechless.

Warriors will stand with winking armour in the sun and happy rivers run at the feet of the blessed one. The garden, it expands as the innocent child plays. And bowing lions take their ease when the majesty is displayed.

Every orchestra strikes the strings and every woodwind plays. The oboe, the flute, the viol, the lute, all music here arrayed. Sound the trumpets brass band, let the deeping horn boom call and the french horns curl their bells when the timpani drummers roar.

Up the mountain, down the valley, in the forest born, little ribbons flutter from the railings and scatter on the moors.