Show Me The Treasure

 There is a short poem, by Victor Hugo, sung as a round,  ‘Be like the bird pausing in her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and sings, knowing she has wings.’, which is what I imagine this bird, so elegantly alight here, might do, or just as well, I might imagine her

While Farmer Bart Brassica, always curiously inconsistent, eschews literature per se, he says he is an ardent admirer of Rainer Rilke and the Duino Elegies, though he has not got as far as actually reading the Elegies, but has proffered this photo to Mavis Eggwhistle as evidence that his mysterious absence was due to waiting outside Chatueau de

 Like a smile stitched in string on a hessian bag, there is a flocullant boil to this Prussian and cobalt mix of drops dragged and salted, puddled  and feathered into something more blue brow than high brow, more cumulously dreamy than cloudy. Why, like narrative, do faces  insinuate themselves into abstract fields? Long may the quilted moustache reign.  Like

 A photo of this picky eater, Petasida ephippigera, or Alyurr of Arnhemland, who eats and lives on one plant Pityrodia, arrived from a friend , who knew how charmed I would be with this grasshopper. To properly consider its form I drew it in ink, adding water colour and pencil but the colours are drabber than the real