Bed Rock, what is this, not bed rock surely, that suggests sleep, passive nature, no this is alive and feeling and talking, I can hear it and I am hurting, deepening my sadness of the live essential.
The world is not angry, it bleeds, not sleeps, there is no symbiosis here, no mother nature warmly brooding, just use and abuse, I am sorry, but not so sorry to avoid the pain and stop the abuse.
Is this how abuses feel, guilty by continuing and never ending. It is not the permanence, but the pain that seems to ring out silently deafening all.
This is wrong just wrong in a way that few things are wrong and I must do justice to the pain.
(On drilling into the granite to fix the cottage dock)
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