As weeks become months, so months become years;
and so it is that all things become one.
It’s why things merge as distinction nears,
It’s why things flow and with rivers run.
Between two points we imagine spaces,
and yet between two trees a forest grows.
We invent voids between distant places;
recognise columns, but ignore the rows.
For convenience sake we subdivide
the river of life into segments small,
then wonder why the stream cannot provide
baskets of abundance; plenty for all.
. current – a ready date, that’s here and now.
. current – a steady rate, an endless vow.

Tim Grace, 31 December 2011

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To the reader: Systems within systems. A constant stream of energy feeding the fire from within. The onward flow is effortless. The complete constancy of life is the travellers joy; being at one with the journey is the real destination. Too much concentration on the stop-start details and we become distracted; events become activities; life becomes staccato: “signifies a note of shortened duration, separated from the note that may follow by silence”.

To the poet: The flow of any poem is important; all the more so if your poem is about flow itself. In writing a poem, the internal voice is constantly providing feedback on the inner and outer workings of a script. Most of my sonnets develop over a few days of working. In that time, the lines are re-read hundreds of times until I’m happy with every element of connective tissue. To some extent, through rehearsal and revision, my spontaneity is contrived.

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