Mirrored on the still
surface of the sewage pond,
A mobile phone mast.
(LF, picture by Will Lakeman)
Out on late afternoon errands,
I saw the perfect line
of the bright beacons against the indigo --
Jupiter, Saturn, Venus.
This never, ever palls!
Those who find the past times in paper flowers,
As soon as you get wounds, you find new, old relations,
These lips are very silent in the crowd of tears,
We also find excuses to smile!!
(Ravi Singh Jadon)
One oak is struck down
and another planted.
And the wretched beautiful old earth
keeps on spinning.
I really loved that Lea Valley area of London.
Just a short walk out
and you felt like you were on the afterthought fringes
of the known world.
Glassworks3: it evokes a sunny loneliness
that's impossible to convey properly with words.
Distant ships loom hopelessly beyond the dunes.
Something in that air.
Evenings closing in
With the silent wash of a dark tide.
Are there eyes in the distance?
I’m afraid to go further
and my flashlight batteries are low.
Welshpool. I’m sure it would be much nicer
If it wasn’t the middle of the night.
At least there’s a McDonalds.
(Elwyn York, long-distance lorry driver)
Dusk in Lincolnshire.
Then a clear cold night after.
Trainee was driving.
I just found this wasp nest
On the sidewalk outside my apartment.
I tried to show a woman walking by
And she said, “So what?”
I want to become
the kind of person that...
It's either very misty
or someone stole
The haar is drifting in from the firth.
Someone has stolen the Black Isle
And there is snow on the ben.
(Paul Michael Dicks)
Plane tree brushing the sky above
The mansion flats of Victoria.
The dry spherical seed bundles
Hang on the twigs.
I rise from my bed,
Realising with horror
We have no teabags.
listening to fog horns
in the distance.
When the house creaks a little,
in the full sun of a cold morning
sometimes it sounds like your footsteps
and I start talking to you,
as if you were there.
As if I were, as well.
Something is going to happen here
Midnight in the Edgelands. Despite the promises,
You will be walking. The last bus
Has long since passed this place.
The owls are out.
Huge full moon rising over the fields,
With Mars a dim red eye in attendance.
Walk to night shift –
Quiet - some owls –
An engine sounds rough -
Drums from a different vehicle.
Sat in the cold, still dark
On the beach at Tankerton,
Watching the lights flashing
On the wind farm out at sea,
And hearing the peep of wading birds in the night.
I’m on a campsite somewhere in lowland Scotland
Miles from anywhere
Listening to China State Radio on my shortwave radio.
There’s a clear sky and the stars are coming out.
And I am happy.
Dawning in Sompting
while the tawny owl flew by
and a thousand rooks set off as one
for their morning commute.
The waning gibbous moon
is keeping me awake.
Not long now until
I transmogrify into a werewolf.
In this wood by the Deben
Feathered wings flapping against leaves
And the barking of deer.
This morning's music:
the seagulls and the sparrows outside
singing in the rain.
Years ago I found this tiny sepia photograph at a market.
I wonder if the houses are still there.
Part of me wants to know but also, doesn't.
At dusk hundreds of rooks
Fly over from Clandon to roost
Somewhere nearer Guildford.
Just me and a carrier bag,
Blowing past me in haste
Up Windmill Hill.
(Michelle Facey in lockdown)
Crows deliberately light fires.
Clearly they massacre each other.
And laugh while doing it.
Last night when we were
coming into our lodgings,
a coyote crossed the path in front of us
amid fast-travelling wisps of mist.
I love that cold morning autumn rain
that rots leaves
and carries the smell of chimneys.
Moths dancing on lamps
is a strange sound. Like rain gone
sideways and sparse and heavy.
L’homme nait comme la fleur;
on la coupe, elle tombe;
il passe comme une ombre
et le lieu qui l'a vu
ne le reconnait plus.
I sowed the seeds of love
But I understand the seeds of thyme
Are spread around by ants.
The corridor which led to it
had a smell of old carpet and furniture oil...
and the drab anonymity
of a thousand shabby lives.
(Philip Marlowe in The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler)
Basking in the sun,
A beautiful adder.
I nearly stepped on it.
My battery is low
And it’s getting dark.
I have a strange feeling
of nostalgia for unknown places.
Does this have a name?
A wagtail in Jermyn Street!
They pop up bravely
on the edge of ghastly roads.
(John Thesiger/Jonathan Keates)
It snowed here.
Then it rained. Now it isn’t snowy.
This makes me sad.
On Sat at 2 am I saw two lovely Geminids.
Cloudy, but the Plough could be seen,
I looked out of a window for two minutes,
They passed rather slowly and elegantly,
Then cloud covered all.
I remember learning that
those majestic and graceful birds, the swans,
are sociopaths and given to murdering one another.
Because of course
The bus is late
And I am trapped
In Milton Keynes.
I'm peering out into New York Bay
looking for the Statue of Liberty
but low, grey cloud is obscuring it.
That's some A-grade pathetic fallacy right there.
Stunde und Stunde entlang
der Schwarzen Elster.
Mal Schotter mal Asphalt.
Mal Schatten mal Pralle Sonne.
Mal Birken mal Eichen mal Kiefern.
Mal Fluss im Blick.
Hours and hours along
The Black Elster.
Gravel, then asphalt.
Shadows, then full sun.
Birches, then oaks, then pines.
Sometimes a glimpse of the river.
Der Wind schlug
den grünen Fensterladen
auf und zu und auf und zu.
(The wind claps
The green shutters
Back and forth, back and forth.)
From the passenger seat of a southbound car -
Lowing sun over teasels, debris yards
and former Little Chefs.
And grievous about this view.
Thank you for seeing it.
Fred and Ginger will
live forever – I won't, but
while I do, they live for me.
Visible gusts of
air swirling snake-like close to
the ground by the sea.
More here, and links to the rest.