Lacking somewhat in the inspiration department right now. Could be related to lacking in the sleep department as well. Various social activities have kept me out past my bed time so I’m craving some restorative sleep tonight. Before getting up at 4am to go away again (there I go, sounding like an ingrate – sorry!).
I’m off to York this weekend, a historic town in Yorkshire, UK. One of my favourite places on this earth. It isn’t the most beautiful place, or the oldest place, or the cutest place, or anything-est place but it is just one of those places that when I arrive, I always exhale and become calm and grounded. Weird how some places just have that effect on you.
I also thought I’d share with you one of my favourite poems. A good friend, and old colleague, but more friend than colleague, put me onto many years ago and I often think off it. Anyway, here it is, by Robert Smith (and this will be the end of my week of moroseness – promise – I hope to return with stories of charming Christmas markets and lights and gluwein and what not).
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
To lose one's wealth is sad indeed,
To lose one's health is more,
To lose one's soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.
The present only is our own,
So Live, Love, toil with a will --
Place no faith in 'Tomorrow' --
For the clock may then be still.
Robert H. Smith
Pic from Leo Reynold’s photostream