Episodes
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Walking May
Walking
the flower
garden,
this opening
of spring,
listening
to birdsong,
the wind
and trees
that sing,
for the sky
is so blue
a blessing
this May,
for June
is approaching
and summer
will be here
For ever
and more.
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Spring in the Garden of May.
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Missing episodes?
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Even if I…
Even if
the sun,
I feel
were blind,
I would like
to hold
your face
in the quiet
of my hands,
and trace
just once,
my fingers
upon
the tributaries
and streams,
of the life
that has become
the beautiful
you,
to feel
a thousand stories,
journeys
and emotions,
joining
a stream,
a flow,
of stars,
to a river
of journeys,
that I cherish
in wonder
that I feel,
in the music
of living
and life,
that is
born
in me
with you.
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For ifthere is,
truly,
a Spring
in winter
let me drink
then,
deeply of your
beautiful eyes
to see the dawn
of morning blue,
for laughter
is the sunlight
of March
that rises,
beautifully
in the blossom
of life
that is
simply being
and walking,
the path
with you.
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They
He pulled. Felt her hand in his. Remembering her taste. Her smell. The way her body cleaved into his. His into hers.
Mustiness.
Earth.
Wonder.
Urgency.
The earth crumbled around him. It matted his arms, legs and lower back.
His hair.
His beard.
He sat up. Felt the dull ache, the throb of life to be given fill his awakening being with her.
To her.She could see him now. Lifting himself out of sleep. His own dream wrapped around him. She released his hand, reached over and kneeled beside him. She cleared the soil, earth, pebbles and stones from his feet, his legs. Saw his rising. Spread her warming hands and cleared away the earth and winter from his torso, his arms.
His eyes were still closed. She caressed his face. His beard. And combed his hair with her fingertips. His breathing, before, once shallow in intervals of time, slow and season, deepened as he trembled with the beginnings of power that infused him.His eyes filled her soul with his form. Half known. Half remembered. A sense of knowing and possession filled her heart and senses.
They joined as the sky lifted.He the earth. She its Spring.They pushed and pulled and bound and knotted the spaces born in life and time between them.
A circle of birds arose.
Like leaves re born from yesteryear. They too combined in runes and patterns remembered long and hard, instinctively opening, outside, inside, and up and to the light above them.
And in memories, coupling and murmurations, she and he, the two, entwined again and again, the great pulse of life,
Again and again, they lifted seas and sons; the cycles born of time and place between them.It began to rain.
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February Afternoon
The sun sets
long shadows,
cast the distance
upon the broken
garden wall
But amongstthe cracks,
the silence,
beneath
the settling
dusk
of late afternoon
A blackbird
sings, his voice
catching
my tears
one by one
as softly,
gently
the rain begins
to fall.
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S(he)
He was awakening. The stiffness of sleep held him tight within its arms. The winter stars were wrapped in sheathes of time about his legs and lower body. From somewhere outside of himself he could feel a growing sense of urgency. A warmth. A remembering. He needed to remember. Wanted to remember. But a great fog of darkness still held him. Whispered to him. Wanted him to remain within it.
Somewhere. Somewhere.
‘Here.Here.’ He could sense his own voice outside of himself. A movement beyond his own vision. A feeling. No more.
Shapes formed around him. He felt a tightening within him. A gnarled, knotted network of strength that rooted him down began to pull up from deep beneath him. Answering a deeper call from the pressing darkness around him.
There it was again. And again. A pulse. A throb. A release of heat into what he could feel awakening above him.
‘I must move,’ the thought, if that was what it was, an impulse, a command, came into his consciousness. He felt the pull upwards. Strong. Ancient. Remembering.
He knew he lay between roots, trunk, branch, leaves to be and the great emptiness of sky.
Something was tracing upon his still bound hands. Patterns. Repeated. And again.
‘Runes,’ the shapes, became sounds. The sounds, familiar, became repeated, and grew into words. The darkness around him began to thin. Began to dissipate. Light, for that was what he remembered, slipped between the stars and spread in warmth around him.
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She (1)
She was not sure when it started. A cold day perhaps. Long shadows. Early evening. She could feel in her memories the wind blow cool from the mountains around the valley. A shiver of possibilities across the lengthening dusk.
Maybe it was then. When the first stars blinked across the skies, the first street lights flickered and then failed.
‘Yes. Perhaps it was then,’ she thought to herself.
She closed her eyes. Lay still and quiet. Felt once again, the first time it touched her.
Fingertips across her face. A breath through her untangled, uncombed hair. Two hands like ripples along each side of her spine.
She felt naked. Known. Not wanted.
Needed.
Essential to something outside of herself. It was not a violation. More a justification of her being there at that moment and now.
A now that seemed to stretch from then until the now. The here where she lay under the freshly mown grass,the open blue sky and the rim of trees that nodded and whispered in the late spring breeze.
‘Yes,’ she admitted quietly to herself once again, ‘this, what is now was born from then.’
She reached out with her hand and blindly sought his own. She felt through each new blade of grass, felt the soil crumble, warm and fecund through her fingers, smelled him close to her, his breathing, his mustiness and then found his. She caressed the palm of his hand. Followed the lines and marks, the calloused knots and branches of experiences that were written in his outstretched fingers.
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A Sleepy Summer Afternoon
It’s a lazy,
sleepy afternoon,
the villages
are empty,
flowers,
in colours
of summer,
curtsy and nod
in the baking sunlight, radiating off walls
and shimmering rooftops, and, as if uplifted,
a single buzzard flies
and swoops overhead.
It’s so warm,
the distance
is translated,
from far and away,
to the here
and now:
a band of
light above
the winding road,
the asphalt, soft,
under the lens
of light,
a magnifying glass
to places and oases
beyond the peel
of church bells,
that mark,
in a sudden silence,
the slipping
of hours.
And it is here
that I stop,
and step off the path,
lean over the fence,
across the summer gardens,
the flowerbeds,
the well kept lawns,
abandoned lawnmowers,
the hissof water sprinklers,
the hurried slam
of descending sun blinds,
and here it isthat I stop,
and look at the world
from the side.
And beyond
the crumbling brick wall,
the crooked apple tree,
bending like time,over the broken gap,
the open doorway,
where butterflies
dance and tarry,
I see further than myself,
the slow patternsof the wind
and seasons,
the trembling shadow hands
of leaves,
and deeper,
further into the folds
and valleys
of the distances
that await me.
But of course,
I am blind.
I can see
no further
than the fingers
of my left hand,
the hand that feels
the breeze
flow thorough
and across it.
The memories
and whispers
of former times
gather and press
around me,
shaping, waiting,
listening
to my breathing,
hearing the dance
of my heart
as I slowly feel myself slipping,
stretching
and falling
through.
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She could see their forms shiver and shimmy. She stepped closer. Her self belief was not unsurprised by what she was seeing: two people bound together by time, place-and not a little love.
The wind whispered again, hushing her doubts aside as she stepped closer towards them. She could see through their opaqueness: the edge of the lagoon, and the grey-blue waters still and quiet under a fresh western sky. Beyond, and stretching behind them, was the beach itself, like a great arm separating sky and sea, past and present, now and then.
They turned as if they could see her, he beckoned her towards them both. His eyes full with belonging, his hand waving, almost urgently.
She walked again, closer, and yet closer, leaving Cassie whimpering further and further behind.
She walked past them, they flickered and faded as she went by, and as she looked at the gravestone, standing and yet tilted, deep in long grass and covered with tears of moss, lichen and split into a mosaic of cracks and fissures. She reached out and touched the cold, wet, damp stone and rubbed the green fur of centuries, away from the inscriptions and read:
‘Mohune, Emily, b. 1746 d. 1796. Mohune, John, b. Unknown,d.1796.’She read further, and in doing so, dared not to look at the two figures standing behind her, but feeling them step closer, she read on:
‘Life giveth and taketh, returning all who live to the beckoning sea, waste not your days, and heed the wind, for your chime of hours, is what is left to be.’
She felt a mere whisper, a breath of wind behind her back. She turned slowly fearing what she might not be able to see.
John and Emily stepped back from the gravestone. They had walked from the wreck, left the wounded and broken, the bloated dead that lay strewn across the beach, their bones shattered, their organs pummelled, their bodies abandoned beneath the unforgiving skies, across the breached and storm -battered berm.
It was too much, knowing they had each other, but others had lost their own lives, slipping through the storm that had separated what was alive to that which never would be. One to the past, the other to a future neither would remember.
They walked up the beach, to the edge of the marram grass, across their spiky crests, to the dunes that rippled and fell until they came into the lee of the wind, and the pathway that led them through the silver birches and bristles of Scot’s pine, through sheltered oases of silence towards the nestling church.
‘I’d not remembered this,’ she said,’Our names must be here, unless this is finally the now where we both belong.’
He held her tightly, he couldn’t let her go again. He pointed at the figure still peering at the gravestone. Fading now, she was a mere grey smudge upon the stone, a shadow or pall that seemed to collapse into the gathering darkness.
‘She might,’ he nodded as if only talking to himself, ‘I mean she might remember us before she too turns upon this way again.’
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She turned and walked back from the beach. Everyone had long since gone. The storm had passed, the skies were clear once again, and the wind had settled into restful sighs across the silver birches. The trees were still and yet crooked, bent and twisted with their boughs and branches in repose after surviving another bout with the seasonal storms that raced up this battered coast.The path was small, she had not taken the tourist one, the direct route, instead she followed the sunken one, the one that meandered through the wheat fields, along the high hedges that edged the rippling folds and furrows of fields, copse and sky.
Cassie ran ahead, turning, pausing, sniffing, following an invisible pattern of smells and traces that bound her instincts to territories of the hidden world around her.
She could just see the church, the original one, the one that had been flooded, wrecked and mauled by the storm of 1776. Only the nave remained, now a chapel surrounded by tilted and ancient gravestones that stood like sentinels against all that time could offer. Belief in life beyond the tide.
She followed the sandy path, the rabbit clipped grass either side, the droppings marking the places where they danced in the late evening sun. She passed the silver birches, their leaves shimmering in myriads of silver shadows upon the old red bricked wall. It leaned to one side, roots and subsidence having dislodged bricks that had galled into the sandy loam.
The gate to the back of the churchyard was ajar. Broken and battered, it swung lightly upon ancient hinges, with soft sigh and whispers of the empty wind.
They were standing together over the double grave stone. He was leaning his head on her shoulder, she had her arm around his waist. He was bent and traced his hands over the letters hidden behind centuries of weathering, moss and incalculable seasons of cycles of summer and winter.
Cassie whimpered and lay down not wanting to go closer.
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He paused, scratched his head with his pen, as if to recall something he had forgotten
‘…and,’ he stuttered,‘something has turned up at the church, over the last few months, we’ve had reports of moving lights at night. Youths probably, come down from the caravan park, drinking, playing ghosts, larking around.’
She turned fully and looked him directly in the face.
‘He is young, almost too young to keep the law, never mind enforce it,’ she thought to herself
‘Is there a connection? Between that and…,’
She paused, hesitated, sighing at the release of the stress over the past hours- not least from the interviews and cameras that had poked her privacy, as well as asking her the same questions about what she had discovered until there were no more answers any different than the one she repeatedly gave.
‘You know the smuggling history along this coastline, the shipwrecks, the beach and the flooded church…’
Her voice trailed off. The mystery of it all sounded too real, too familiar somehow, almost like a predictable television after nine show.
‘ I don’t know. But we do have a missing person, an abandoned car, and a wreck of bones dragged from who knows where,’ he paused himself, then added,‘and when.’
Behind them, the waves had lessened in their intensity, the roar and rage of the shingle had shifted to a hiss and rattle. The crowd of people had thinned. The tideline was mostly of broken wood, seaweed and fragments of casings, caskets and long thin bends of binding metal.Twisted and rusted they pointed, wildly, madly, at shattered bottles, brown glass and thin arms of a myriad of twigs and branches that had piled in heaps from the retreating tide.
‘How do you trace a missing person who you know has abandoned his life, his time, and probably drowned in the sea?’ He asked.
‘Time will tell,’ she mumbled almost to herself.
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Kent
The cherry blossom
fell, along
the garden paths,
and upon others,
that lay,
still, quiet
and hidden,
among the thickening shadows,
beneath
the stretching hands
of trees.
For he walked,
slowly now,
remembering footsteps
of those
who walked
with him,
upon evenings,
like this one,
warmth in the heart
of sunlight,
his treasure
of life
this time,
and memories
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A fist of leaves
For is not time dawn itself?
Having shaken the stars from a now empty sky, she now races to catch the night before the call of day, dancing, skipping, gathering the shadows fleeing before her catch, her catch gathered in a bag, in fists of leaves and abandoned trees, the rooftops reflect and mirror the first touch of sunlight, the slow rise of breakfast fires, the first call and echo of the last of black and birds, singing loud and brightly, the night reclining to a lulling sleep,
Dawn dances to the last, a flood of gold, red and passing, a mourning empty of cloud, clutching her bag of stars and shadows, she lifts the lid of morning, and slides beneath the rising light of day, to other side of dreams, life and the twilight hush of dark before a smiling, familiar moon.Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
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The helicopter flew low, hovering above the breaking tide. The ship was a bleached skeleton of former seaworthiness. Fragments of sail and broken masts, collapsed and shattered, lay at broken angles and forgotten shapes, upon the seaweed and barnacle encrusted former deck.
The press had long since left. Leaving a sense of puzzlement and cheapness amongst the temporary beach combers. They grouped and haggled along the retreating tide, looking for meaning and hidden discoveries in the centuries old flotsam and jetsam that bobbed and begged with the incoming waves.
The ship was not large, but looked more so as it lay like a collapsed and broken dragon across the raised pebble beach.
Cassie and her owner stood over the abandoned clothes, heads down pawing and shuffling sand, still wondering at what had happened, she spoke again to the bewildered officer, himself looking as if he alone had survived the storm.
‘Is that it? They take their pictures, broadcast their videos and leave us here, abandoned? What about the missing man? His car?’
She shook her head, as if shaking it for answers thinking alone couldn’t find.
‘No ma’am, it’ll be an ongoing investigation now: missing person or suspected suicide. We just don’t know.’
He paused and looked at Cassie digging and sniffing around and under the clothes, growling in low murmurs of canine dissatisfaction.
‘We can’t trace the car to an owner apart from it was hired from AVIS and never returned. The key belongs to the church, although the warden has what he thought was the only one- the original from 1772. The village family emblem, shaped like a ‘Y’ and the date are inscribed on each side.The key left in the car is the same key, but without the rust and dents of age.
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The Wasp
It’s colder now, wings heavy, skies too grey for warmth life, and blossom, and still the wasp moves, struggling in spluttering steps across the broken stones. The fruits have fallen, time and leaf lie together, upon the frozen, naked ground.
And though summer has passed away, and the dark is growing, through the clouded broken glass, I can still see the garden, the empty hands of abandoned trees, the colours of spring, piled amongst rope, recognition and roots.
The broken fence has slipped further, underneath the fading stubs of bricks, the shattered remains of a summer house from yesteryear, overgrown now, with bramble, brier and blackberry bushes.And still the wasp crawls closer.
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War is
and coming,
a thunder-scratch
across humanity’s
eye
Evil rises,
the black hooded horror
of blindness
an endless serpent
swallowing,
screaming
death
no more
Ravens circle,
life.
ravenously
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The Meadow
A meadow full
of memories,
the faded colours
of summer, rest
upon the skeletal
hands and leaves,
for summer whispers
to autumn:
‘For now is here,
take this,
my time away,
for I wish not
yet for Spring,
for fall
and sleep
I must,
to dream again
come May.’
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Here
He somehow felt the woman sag aside him. Heard a sigh of incredulity and the dull low growl of the two dogs, as he himself turned and looked for himself in the direction of the storm.
Then‘It is done,’ Emily whispered, exhausted into his ear. Her voice as far away as the time he’d left behind.’The rest will come back upon the next tide- and then all will be counted upon the last of waves.’
She lowered her head still further and sobbed against his chest.
Here
There was a ship. With battered sails, broken masts: it was grey, and shattered and somehow out of place. Somehow there was a localised storm around it: a fist of wild wind and heavy rain that knotted in clenches of broken sky about it.She looked across the lagoon, heard the wind roar and the deep rumble of the stones slip against each other as the waves and tides lifted the battered vessel up and onto the bank.
There were gasps and cries of disbelief as the lens of storm and weather seemed to fold in on itself, like an eye blinking in disbelief against the coming of night.
Then‘John! John!Look!’ He caught the sudden urgency in her voice, the loss of intimacy that had for a brief moment brought them, at last, together.
She pulled his hand and moved away from him. Incredulously, he saw what she himself doubted, the storm was abating and with it the ship was somehow fading. Losing shape and form, colour and structure, it was simply dissipating, becoming thinner until it fell back into the mist and fog of tides and time out of view.
‘What on earth..’ John ran after her and stood amongst the flotsam and jetsam, the barrels and boxes, the sodden caskets abandoned jars and containers. A few survivors struggled to get up, their clothes heavy, countenances shocked, pale and exhausted turned to look at where they were running, stumbling sliding down the pebbles, down to the edge of the receding tide.
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This is a place of slow time, with a sky that reaches above a sudden, empty wind, with the hidden stars, turning beacons of light upon eons of eternity, above the pointing fingers of an ancient forest, and below, amongst the leaves and acorns, amongst the lengthening shadows of the last emptiness of summer days, there lies a small cup of life and this time, this now, is placed upon the cut branches of a broken tree. The cup is made out of wood, and yet it is transparent somehow, and through the gentle waves of moments that rock from side to side. And upon the surface, is a picture of the Sun flickering and fading flickering and fading across its face, rippling two pairs of wings lift up and pull the sky open, push back the stars below the trees to make the very earth bend and twist, and there, standing in the heart of things, between the here and now, there lies the simple truth.
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