Month: August 2022
chalk
a dollop of golden honey smeared across the horizon, heatwave, early morning, down by the sea
later it will be batten the hatches. bludgeoned. furnace stale air
yet for now, the gentle lap lap as the sea tip toes closer… Grandmother’s Footsteps…. ‘Whats the time Mr Wolf?’
Cliff mirrored in the stillness of tide pool, the reflection has something of the wobble of water
Brighton and wind turbines lurk further, distant through the haze
Sea birds their sound: clatter and clamour, gobble or chunder…
the gulls call has a rhythmic insistency, the throb and urgency of a police siren
so different to the melodic warble tweet of woodland birds… this cry, far flung, out across the emptiness of the ocean,
else harking back thru profound time to the days of dinosaurs
chalk
there is scribbleage
a game of hopscotch etched out on the path… who could ever resist?
toss the stone… hop jump, hop jump, hop jump, stoop, pick stone, turn, then hop jump again… a patterning of effort and limbs
somebody has written ‘chalk’ in chalk from the chalk cliffs, the recursive nature pleases my programmers mind
an environment you can write about with the substance of itself
we too are the instruments of our own saying?
‘Chloe loves Jack’
Chloe, or Jack, for that matter, thought it worth articulating
a possessive specificity? this cri de coeur… love walks the chalk?
I have never written ‘I love insert name here‘ in chalk! my Romantic soul somewhat aghast
forever a caveat, a complexity?
yet written in chalk a cheerful ephemera, perfect for youths tender blooms of love
from the cliff flint falls… its clatter
I think of the mountains of Slovenia, Shiv and I setting out along the Triglav trail, the lush beauty of spring,
we climbed higher and higher amongst a host of golden butterflies
two nights camping along the shore of a snow melt lake, distant peaks lotering, crowding the valley sides
nobody, nobody but us
you’d think that, unobserved, nature would be silence, stillness?
but each evening we sat serene in the red light of our campfire,
listening to rocks, rattling down the hillside
like shooting stars, turned to stone, turned to sound
world creaks
smelling salts, mind revivified by the ammonia tinged stench of seaweed
next i play with the light, shadow summoning a loch ness monster
dapple, stipple these words with memories
shadows … away walking up at devil’s dyke when the kids were young… daughter perched high on my shoulders…
a low sunset light… Yawn stretch of shadow away over the valley and the villages clustered below
Fi Fi fo fum with this thumb, this omnipotence, I obliterate Poynings!
turn, reach further out with arm, vastmess ‘Now the shadow falls upon Fulking!’
chortles from up top, she too raises arms, dabbling with this power
two heads are better than one
chalk
Protected: chalk pic
Protected: lincolnshire
Protected: yeucch
peasblossom redux
I came across some peasblossom at the end of my run today… it nearly made me cry… not for any murky sorrows, tho they are forever lurking, but just because it was so gorgeous and enchanting
a vibrant pink magenta in colour, like some Thai Airways orchid… hothouse spoilt… preposterous
an escaped cultivar? slumming it amongst the ruffians of ragwort and briar
petals peeking out here, then THERE, far flung further along… betwixt and between the tendrils submarine submerged somewhere beneath the host bush
louche and sprawled throughout the hedgerow, the flowers, like some 1920’s flapper, partied out, collapsed, draped elegantly across a chaise lounge
when we were young my older sister was peasblossom, one of the fairies in midsummers night dream
she had this beautiful, frivolous, lace and tulle pink garment, topped off with a purple pixie cap
i vaguely recall the performance, outdoors, it went on forever, so it seemed to the 5 year old me, i was sitting under a chair…
late late late, yet still light in the sky, so must indeed have been midsummers eve
solstice the endless languish of light
the costume was a staple of the dressing up box throughout my childhood,
that and dads old biggles-esque leather flying helmet, that he, in turn, had worn as a child, the smell rich, leathery, beautiful
oh and a long blonde wig, which dad had foolishly bought for mum, she always had dark short hair, instantly BANISHED to the dressing up box… whatever her opinion of the wig, the four of us all loved it
a box of possibilities?
oh peasblossom unkempt amongst the hedgerow
as we pass through the world, world is straggle pulled through us
away across the field, a swag uddered cow yet to be milked
the gut clutch of being, churn
the raft of thoughts, ego clod hopper lurches across
yet beyond this, all is golden, in its majesty, brimful, somehow swollen
life is imbued by the gentle quality of our cherishing
steady… with poise… toes uncurled, dear Hobbit, bask in this, the endless, endless torrent of presence
……………..
this the bliss, the blossoming of our perpetual becoming
Jog on
Jaw first.. tilted, forward to the future
Lammas
Lammas/Harvest blessings… right on cue the first tom to ruddy ripeness… tho this one seemingly so huge that it has, after einstein, warped the fabric of both time and space
must be such a bulge full world seeing thru the eyes of a fish? apols for another veg snap… guess august is always fruit and festies
yield of a different type… daughter has been moving out of her student house, a glut of clobber! where does it all come from? the trusty estate car fit to burst
guess that is what being a parent to kids in their twenties is often about… i can see my dad patiently and good humouredly helping me move for the umpteenth time…
lugging another lucky dip box: wizard cape, curios, futile gee gaws and a hoard of books. thanks dad!
life in all its rhythms and cycles
Sarah: Oooh that’s goodMine completely failed this year 
no tomatoes 
oh thats a shame… for me, most years, the only thing that gives a decent harvest… slugs and snails don’t seem even remotely keen on them! xx
Sarah: only thing I’ve managed so far this year is radish’s!Think it was v wet , then v hot, now v wet !