I walk slow, I walk slow. Take my hand; help me on my way.

Sometimes I write to unload the accumulation of neglected perceptions and abandoned conjectures commonly known as “feelings”. Words spill out onto the page and somehow fit themselves into a comprehensible conclusion – like a math problem too complex to be completed without paper and pen.

But sometimes I set thoughts in ink for I fear that if spoken to an ear, they would be choked by the breath I’ve taken and lost with the one I must. It’s perplexing that the things I feel most boisterous about are best understood as a melody in total silence.

                    A clutch of the hand. 

                    An unadulterated stare. 

                    A swell of mute comfort loud enough

                    to set two innately restless bodies 

                    entirely at ease.

This is for the winsome light that chases away the shadows cast by worry.

           This is for each time something indefinable
           becomes the brightest minute in the dullest day.

This is for the unspoken solace shared in
composing the silent songs we sing.

Johnny Flynn - Churlish May

Not sure why the mass female youth dote over a fictitious character when they could worship the real thing (minus the whole vampirey bit). Johnny's seemingly innate composition ability and commanding voice - perfectly matched to his lyrical grace - toys with the idea that he may have actually been born in the 16th century. A prodigy of Billy Shakes, perhaps? Either way, this fair skinned, flaxen haired theater-boy/musician sits near the top of my playlist, rubbing shoulders Mumford & Sons.

"Look, I got nothing, don't know where I am;

Got a fist full of questions, not an answer to hand."

Some of modern-day Britain's finest. Yes, that is Ronald Weasley's photo.
And yes, Winston, I still love your banjo and your whimsical folly.