05.30 am
on the road
little traffic
brain not in gear
mist lies low
on the ground,
primordial swamp
caffeine be good
but I need miles
before the world wakes
and sees me gone
autopilot.
05.30 am
on the road
little traffic
brain not in gear
mist lies low
on the ground,
primordial swamp
caffeine be good
but I need miles
before the world wakes
and sees me gone
autopilot.
what makes you think you matter or make a difference? your footfall makes no imprint. no noise above the sound of deafening mediocrity. no matter how big your shoes you are irrelevant. forget it, as you are already forgotten.
When I was in Tesco – looking for Tabasco
I came across a shelf that was empty of goods
I asked them where the sauce was they said they had no more because
The volcanic ash cloud stopped all the planes
shoulders slump
eyes shut I can hear birds in the garden
the spring sunshine streams through the conservatory roof
heart beat slows almost to a halt, head nods forward, soon I will no longer be awake…………………………………………………………………………
They’re on the beaches.
We’ll fight them, then.
Nearly 70 years on, in fact.
Welcome to an unseasonably warm IOM.
Dara Ó Briain ticket for Wednesday available for Hannah.
Downside? She has to come with me.
Upside? Transport both ways for Hannah.
can of lager
can of lager
psshtttt
psshtttt
can of lager
can of lager
psshtttt
psshtttt
The April rain beats down on the roof. It comes in waves, like I’m being gently massaged by expert hands. Not showers but steady persistent wetness. Looking out I am comfortable. My face slumps. I can feel those fingertips caressing my temple. “Relax” the voice says.
The stillness inside contrasts with the constant motion of the hedge outside the window.
Drops convene and race others down the glass. Every one is a winner.
The end of the road is a long long way
and with storm clouds gathering
there is no place to hide,
I think of the friends I have left behind
and wonder what they are doing,
wish they were with me on this long long ride
It was not an easy living and the kids eventually had to leave home to work over the water. They came back from time to time but then the old man died and there was no longer a reason to make the trip. The building lay empty and locked until one winter a storm ripped slates off the roof. The subsequent decline was rapid and the cottage soon became fit only for sheep and nesting birds. Never again would that hearth see a roaring fire in the grate.
Come on Rack, it’s time to hack,
That cable mess, I do distress,
Always the night, to end this fight.
Now feel my rage, as I strip your cage,
You’re left to bare… I no longer care!
I look at this scene and feel calm, the serenity of the South Uist sunset. The derelict building, a black cut out on the darkened promontory, is a focus for the mind on life on the island. Summer now but a different proposition in winter. As if I am being lulled into a false sense of wellbeing.
I spend a few minutes gazing and then retire to the cottage. The oil lamp is already lit. There is no fire in the hearth but the smell of peat lingers, mingling well with the whisky in my glass. We sit around the table in the kitchen and talk long into the night.
hidden art
conflict of emotion
paint by discard
sewer of creativity
avoided filled void
afficionadoless
waters gently lap
whilst the light slowly
grows in intensity,
nature’s perfect alarm clock
a gradual awakening,
reflection on the day ahead,
eastern promise exclaimed
in western islands, perfect
one casts shadows
the other provides shade
church tower – tree
tree – church tower
rhyme or reason
personal decision
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