Migraine

Leave a comment

Or, at least, mine.

More

13/06/2013

Leave a comment

DSCF8444

 

When I look up I am overwhelmed by the immensity of the sky.

I like blue. I love it. The brightness of a summer day, the clarity of autumn, the promise of spring, the ice of winter, the midnight sky with its stars and the ever-present sodium glow. All of it is blue. Jackdaw and husky eyes, alien in their faces. Estuary mud reflects the sky, and on a clear day the blue ribbons across the mud flats like irridescence on a pigeon’s neck. When I crave release from the overbearing grey cloud, it isn’t the sun I’m after. The warmth is welcome, but I want the sky back.

If the sea is time, the sky is forever.

Stand where the horizon isn’t hampered with mountains or buildings, and it seems to stretch out into eternity. The urge to walk rises. Not to go anywhere, just to walk, forever, chasing the uncatchable, to reach the impossible. No rainbow and its gold can match, no star in my hand would satisfy the urge. Onwards, onwards, until there is no more horizon or you come home. [The latter is hard. The former is merely impossible]. Stand there, be blown by the wind pushing against you, driving seas to rise up in foaming angry white at your feet. [Time will end one day. Forever will not.] Stand here, trapped in your skin, deprived of the wings you should have had, of the fast feet and the claws to grab, stand here and reach for forever.

It will wait.

It’s been waiting a long time.

Leave a comment

Terribly sorry. I’ve been a little occupied. And I didn’t promise it would happen all the time.

Welcome back to the Lotto.

More

26/02/2013

Leave a comment

The flowing of water feels like time. Sand and mud and sea-worn pebbles are the history of time. And what time I spend by water is added to the great wealth of time water has eaten away and paid elsewhere, destroying and creating, ancient, forever, secretive, today your friend and tomorrow your enemy, and what are you to it? But you still exist, here, now, your connections and your dreams and your being, and one day you’ll be a piece of time stolen then repaid elsewhere, and is that so bad?

Death and life are wound together, and I am bound more to the Thames than the City, the sea than the seaside town, the mud and estuary and the boat graveyards than the living barges. Tied helplessly to the flowing of time, but the water isn’t always deep, and sometimes you can stand in the tide and see around you and understand, know, touch that elusive great thing that lies just beyond comprehension And in that moment, the entire world is beautiful, from wild nature to suburban sprawl, because you can see.

Then the waves rise up and swallow you whole, and you are lost again.

 

You Are

Leave a comment

… because there is not enough random poetry about internet friends ?

More

Lotto, 2nd Feb

Leave a comment

poetry!

More

Lotto, 31st Jan

Leave a comment

time and tides matter to none

live and be, know your truth

rosemary and rue, safe and time

what’s mine is yours, for i have died

 

find at last your task is done

live and be, know your truth

by your power alone, from the gods

what’s mine is yours, for i have died

 

the rock on the shore learns all

live and be, know your truth

remember and regret, wisdom and time

what’s mine is yours, for i have died

 

speak to the heart curled inside

live and be, know your truth

this world is waiting, just for you

what’s theirs is yours, for all stars die

October 8th, 2012

Leave a comment

The Harold Wood I have seen is a fraction of London.

It has a sweet victorian railway station, one that’s never been upgraded with concrete and glass. red and brown brick, neat design with a touch a touch of style. This is what I know: a road cutting between the railway line and a row of shops, little buildings, and at the bottom half a dozen little terraced houses, the brickwork too prettily done to be modern.

Rain falls, soft and light as snow. The sky, cast in light grey, brings the horizon in close. On the train, passing through fields to home, the closer fields are misty, and the ones further out indistinct and faded. They’re the the land of stories, now, of faerie and magic.

Someone, somewhere, has managed a bonfire. The smoke is a brief acrid scent, blown in the open window and gone.

After the second stop the land changes. Fields seem to become familiar, banks of trees and the rolling, gentle hills and dips of an ancient agricultural landscape. Houses, roads, car parks, and my old friend river, meandering into forever.

October 9th, 2012

Leave a comment

Morning is blue-edged gold.

A stray robin flutters past, but starlings are bolder creatures. They scavange the grassy stretches between concrete and houses for everything they can find, shooting up to rooftops and telephone poles when humans walk by. Gulls struggle, in the chill winter air, to find any wind or thermals to drift away on.

Cars, covered in thick dampness that isn’t frost, not yet, has rivers of meltwater on their bonnets.

The sun is still behind buildings, but at the end of a road trees yellow with autumn are turned gold against thin clouds dyed rosy pink. A long dog walker wanders down, tugging a black terrier behind her.

School children and commuters huddle under bus shelters. On a window, thick with condensation, someone wrote who do you trust?

Generation Gap

Leave a comment

This one may be a bit odd.

More

Older Entries Newer Entries

All original content on these pages is fingerprinted and certified by Digiprove