This is not a sermon on a mount, this is a commentary on the gospel of my life, a whimper at the foot of a hillock.This is my diary, my (b)logbook, the entries posted here are the mind-stones of a journey. This is also the story of my migrations to places in the horizon for I believe there is always more beyond.
Do not expect regular postings here. There will be times when I will be like Malarial waters. And my pace will be that of a drift-wood searching for sands to wash up on. There will be no tsunamis here, fast, furious, fanatical verbal waves usually drown the boxing day quiet that we harbour.
I write as one who knows that where the shadow of truth falls on, the smoothest of surfaces can cause many to stumble. I know also that the writing on Truth's wall can be mistaken for teenage graffitti,that runes on tablets of stones are often treated with the contempt we reserve for hypermarket flyers.
My postings (writings) are also part of the journey, one word unfurls a sail, a phrase catches the wind, a sentence becomes the rudder that points me to the island where truth's flower wearing the colour of the Rose of Sharon blossoms with the fragrance of the Lily of the Valley.

Island

I would still go there
if only to await
the once-in-a-lifetime
opening of truth's flower;

if only to escape
such bought freedom, and live,
prisoner of the keyless sea,
on the mind's bread and water.

R.S. Thomas