Monthly Archives: March 2014

Heading home


The day, too short in duration,

Time flown too quickly in your arms

The feelings change from moments of elation

To the numbness of comedown

 

I breathe, a heavy sigh, a pause

Before I breathe again, my chest aching

A tear forming in the corner of my eye, the cause

A sense of longing to be with you again

 

Weary, the emotions draining me completely

My head rests on the train table as the jolting

Interminable miles that pass so bleakly

Continue on carrying me further from you

 

Yet hope, that bright star in the dark,

Of a troubled night, beset by demons,

Of doubt and despair, fear and emptiness

As the train nears my station the mobile phone vibrates

 

It is you….

The motorway bridge


The concrete pillars rise like tree trunks, thick, strong, their grey surface mottled with lichen, stained green and brown and red by the action of the colonies of single celled organisms. Artificial in the extreme yet at the same time harbouring a wealth of natural life, transplanted from their usual biome by the coming of the industrial landscape, but oblivious to the human travails, the joys and sorrows, the wealth of mans abilities and experiences.

The lichen doesn’t care whether it sits upon the bark of an ancient oak, magnificent in it’s strength and beauty, or some grimy concrete pillar supporting a hundred thousands cars and trucks as they speed about their daily lives. For the lichen they are the same, indistinguishable yet to man one expresses progress, development, wealth, power, the other is a remnant, a reminder of a time when nature was sovereign.

Perhaps she will be again….

Music heard on a train


Music leaks from the ear-bud headphones. A rock and roll beat, the sound of a guitar, tinny, indistinct but still audible. Auburn hair, cut in a 1950’s style follows the theme set by the music as do her glasses, thick rimmed, the lenses shaped like old TV screens. She sits, foot tapping the rhythm, keeping time as the train moves from station to station, the line the same as it was when her music was current.

She is young, mid 20’s, yet her manner, style, taste, dress suggest an older aesthetic, somehow more charming for its simplicity. The dark russet red of her top, the sleeves gathered, her skin pale, unadorned by makeup, tattoo, augmentation. She smiles, lost in her music, and I smile too as I look out of the window, knowing that in her head she has found the truth of her being, the joy in her soul, and that is something precious….

….a gift

Shaman – the beginning


ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum

The drum sounds a rhythmic beat, slowly at first, quietly, the drummer finding a pace anbd time that fits the quiet period before sunrise…

Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum

Slowly the rhythm increasing, the frequency and strength of each double beat on the stretched goatskin rising as the first of the sleepers starts to come awake…

BA-dum, BA-dum, BA-dum, BA-dum

Louder, faster, the beat rises, now leading, now driving the sleepers from surreal dreams, the acrid smoke from the fires of the night before pungent in the still air as the horizon begins to lighten….

BA-Dum, BA-Dum, BA-Dum, BA-Dum

The drummer pounding now, the arm swinging as the pulse of the beat awakens the Gods themselves, lifting the first light of the day above the horizon as the crowd begins to chat…

 

A true Easter story


The spring Sun, bright in a clear blue sky slowly warms the heavy, wet clay soil of the fields. At first barely penetrating the saturated ground but as it rises, as the intensity increases with each passing hour, each passing day the solar energy awakening the seeds of last years plants, triggering the once dormant fruits of vegetative labour into a burst of frenzied activity.

Husks split, shells open as moment by moment the power of the sun brings forth new life. A shoot, a root, the unstoppable, unquenchable quest for nutrients, for growth, the cycle of birth, death and rebirth played out over eons, over and over as the World turns and all life turns with it. the cycle of the seasons driven by the planets axial tilt and rotational velocity.

A miracle, but not divine, unless nature itself is divine….

….The ultimate hope of resurrection? 

The ritual


The old walls crumbling as time and the elements have taken their toll on the brickwork, the mortar, the very fabric of this once stately structure. Monolithic in form, the interior a vast echoing space once filled with the proceeds of an empire long gone, now silent save for the calls of the pigeons roosting in the exposed rafters, the ironwork stained with their excrement, the acid slowly easting through the ancient metal. Light filtered through dirty, grime covered windows, slanting rays catching the dust motes that fill the still air.

In the centre of the space a pool of light from the circular central skylight illuminates the markings chalked on the hard concrete floor. A double circle within which lie strange, twisted symbols, astronomical, biblical, magical, chaotic. The lines of each symbol slightly blurred as the hand that made them shook, some palsy of fear forcing the chalk to skitter across the surface.

Central to all the figure sits, cross legged, head bowed, silent, still, the old book held tight against the chest….

….waiting