Preamble

How do you convey violence, its impact and aftermath: explain everything and nothing, stand up and remain anonymous? How do you explore and challenge conceptions of – and blurred distinctions between – victim and perpetrator, participant and witness, guilt and innocence, blame and responsibility, fear and courage, fact and truth and fiction? How do you convey stark, brutal and often incompetent reality without visceral detail? How do you challenge your assumptions and maintain self, vision and experience? And can it really be done in less than 50 words? To what end?

I can’t answer.

15 years to figure out how I wanted to approach a subject. Another year for that idea to rest, develop and take shape. And in the end a matter of minutes to write.

A blur.

A lifetime.

It seems appropriate to post the finished piece on the feast day after Christmas, where it will pass unnoticed – which is as it is should be. A merry Christmas to you all.

 

 

Advertisement

Beyond Merlin Crag

beyond Merlin Crag

a glistening Aradaidh awaits

the broken sky as breathless as I

plodding rather than prancing

up the rough track more

usually travelled by machine

bumping and jostling

its cossetted occupants

wp_20150119_20_43_34_pro

 

Communication cord

The bridge had lost its lustre; that feat of engineering which spanned

the easy ebb and flow and troubled spates and spats.

The cantilevered communication cord between parallel banks of opinion

scarred with scribbles, oversaw the writing on the wall for lesser structures.

The odd creak but a reassuring solidity remained nonetheless.

There was an occasional facelift of course, a fresh burst of enthusiasm now and then

but even neglected it still outlived many life spans, generations of storms.

A monument to its simplicity and truth.

wp_20160918_15_39_05_pro-2

Symphony

A wild moon threatens the still

spruce silhouetted on the skyline.

The shadow hound stalks at pace,

scent marking his territory at will.

The owl screeches, wise to the time

whilst the seeker whistles prematurely

and a mother barks warning her kind.

The haunting echo of the distant roar

taunting the neighbouring balladeers,

a prelude: the percussive climax to come.

wp_20160916_20_34_14_pro

Ebb

too soon, too soon

too soon to say

whether I miss them

whether I’m just tired

whether the weather is getting me down

whether the tide waits for no man

whether that’s just for those without a plan

whether I’ll hide, survive or drown

too soon to say

too soon, too soon

Bursting

Finding my line is all well and good

but it does not help to flood

my lungs with the oxygen I so desperately need

to feed my blood

so I can soar away from the pain and succeed

rather than bleed and sink gasping

grasping for some hope and some sign

of a glorious descent

and the line drawn by another

WP_20160730_12_27_58_Pro (3)