Wednesday, 26 December 2007


Please don’t wait for me; I’ll stay caught in light.

I like to watch the fireflies play at life,

They dance like earth was spinning all too tight.

Go on ahead, I’ll catch you up. I might

Take time to ponder forests’ silent strife.

Please don’t wait for me; I’ll stay caught in light.

The ground is wet. My dress is too. The sight

Of insects at my feet – literal lowlife,

They dance like earth was spinning all too tight.

I sink my toes to muddy graves, slight

Shifting of soil. My weight connects cold life.

Please don’t wait for me; I’ll stay caught in light.

Damp rises through from beneath. Rotting blight.

I swell with times decay. Multiply life.

They dance like earth was spinning all too tight.

Alone I’ll stay, till rotted away. I might

Take years to disappear – feed millions with life.

Please don’t wait for me; I’ll stay caught in light.

They dance like earth was spinning all too tight.

Monday, 24 December 2007

Tail Feathers

The man reached down and touched the Raven’s feathers with a weathered hand. The wind shifted in the night and her plumage rose and fell with it. She turned her pit-black eyes to his, but he could not hold the gaze of one he had sentenced to death. The touch was agony enough.

There were lights on the horizon, which took the night in the forest further towards darkness than it knew. They danced on the air currents like ink dropped into water, smudging the sky and dispersing into rivers of hue. Mauve, indigo and the green of winter pines all fed into the black canvas above the trees. The light show reflected in the raven’s eyes, making the shadows deeper and the colours rise in pitch. He fixed his gaze on the sky and prayed for her to break her beady stare.

He wanted to tell her the world would end tonight. That he wouldn’t live on without her and there would be nothing left to know after sunrise. But that would be a lie and another lie would turn his lips to dust.

Perhaps he could set her free, unlock the cuffs about her claws and watch her fade into the blackness? But she would return with armies. She had a duty to her people and her blood; the actions of a fool in love could never answer for a century more of carnage.

He felt the bird turn outwards beneath his fingers, it was time. She had given permission, she had given up. A tiny creature holding so much terrible strength beneath those feathers.

The man lifted the raven and took her to the wooden block waiting on the battlements. Her heart was beating so slowly and unwaveringly. He placed the bird gently with her chest to the jet sky and held a hand across her, leaving a gap between his fingers above her drum-beat heart.

This was the end of a legend in his hands. The lights were still in her eyes and he wished she would close them. The reflected illuminations were moving faster than those they were mirroring and faster than her pulse in his palm. There was fear and hope and sadness and love all dancing together in the glassy shadows looking up at him.

He took a silver dagger from his boot and held it over the space he had made with the other hand on her chest. The raven’s eyes blinked and he knew that he could. The blade seemed to move of its own will down through the soft plumage, flesh and cracking bone. When he pulled it smoothly free from the body, for that was all it now was, the blade was coated in blood the shade that berries stain children’s faces. The raven’s eyes had closed at last and the skin of the drum-heart had split.

The man dropped the dagger and plucked a tail feather from the corpse. He turned and held it up to the sky. Suddenly, the ether shook and swelled with the intense power coursing through it. The lights on the horizon twisted and churned and plaited into one long streaming rope, rushing through the night air towards him. They fed into the plume as though a crystal funnel were pouring lighting-diamonds into its core. Then all was shadow once more, except the feather, which glittered with all the shades of darkness against the sky.

Thursday, 13 December 2007


They left me by the shore of a beautiful emerald lake. The water glistened the morning light that was siphoned through the valley sides. I could tell that they were planning something as we sailed down stream. Their eyes kept shifting, like bodies in restless sleep.

I was bundled onto the mud bank and tied to a tree. A willow. They didn’t look back, fear of their deeds kept their faces forward. The boat set sail to the rising sun and was soon swallowed into the horizon.

I sat by the water and watched the world grow dark and light again and again. My hair grew long and turned to leafy willow-tails. My toenails curled and twisted into the damp earth. They became the roots that fed me. I began to understand the slow language of the trees and the willow that was my prison guard. We became lovers and the bonds broke. My skin turned to bark and my eyes closed to the world I had so longed to be released to.

When they returned to bury my bones, thinking that would absolve their guilt, they found only two willows where they had left me. They couldn’t remember if there had been two there before. But we knew. My lover and I wanted them get into the boat once more. This time I was glad to see them go. Left with my willow. We spent an eternity by the lake and watched a million sunrises glisten on the emerald water.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

Mr. Porcin

Mr. Porcin had read the books, he had learned from the stories and he had chosen to build his house, and the attached pig barn, from bricks. He showed his home off to all the villagers, who could only look at their own timber dwellings with longing and regret. How well Mr. Porcin’s home stood up against the gales and the mighty winds. The rest of the village had to repair their feeble houses with every change in weather as thatches blew off and boards were shaken loose.

Mr. Porcin’s pigs felt very safe in their brick barn, no amount of huffing and puffing could release them to the dangers outside. The pigs would settle down in the hay each night, warm and safe as brick houses.

The Pig keeper was so pleased with himself and the building that he placed a very impressive weather vane on the roof, some of the Iron Monger's finest work. No matter which way the strong winds blew the arrow on the vane, the house stood firm.

Mr. Porcin did not count on the lightning. The weather vane was just too tempting for thunderous skies. One night, in a fearful storm, the brick home was struck. The bolt hit the house with such force that the mortar shook and crumbled. The walls collapsed about Mr. Porcin’s ears and the pigs were exposed to the stormy night outside.

The pigs ran for their lives, down through the feilds and over a stream. Their terror spurred them on faster than any pigs had ever run before They took shelter in the woods, leaving their keeper in the middle of a steaming pile of bricks.

Mr. Porcin was heart broken and moved to the next village where he became a basket weaver. He built a home from wood and eventually learnt to enjoy making repairs in bad weather and painting the boards in the Spring.

Meanwhile, the pigs became accustomed to their wild new home. They grew thick bristles to keep out the cold and strong tusks to forage and fight. The pigs learned to defend themselves against the ferocious wolves. With each new fight the pigs became better combatants and eventually they took hold of the timber territory and drove their fierce predators far away. The wolves looked back at the ferocious pigs as they ran, this was not how they thought the story would end.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Winds of Change

Two children stand and listen to the wind.

They are as still as the frozen lake at their feet but their minds move and churn with the currents of air about their faces.

One turns to the other and places his lips softly to hers. He whispers a secret but it is lost - the wind reaches out a ehteral hand and snatches it from knowing.

The girl looks at him with such peace that he cant help but melt away ito the breeze. she watches him go, faint traces of colour on the edges of the air.

The girl then looks at her bare feet, they are marbled blue and purple with the cold. She exhales and warmth rushes to her toes. The ice about her starts to melt. Cracks emerge like spiders shattering in shock. The girl blinks. She slips away beneath the freezing deep.

The water ripples for a wing beat and the surface is frozen once more.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

Dreaming and Dust

I had a dark dream about a girl last night. It took place in a huge hall with a domed ceiling, like in the grand rafters of a cathedral. The atmosphere was so thick and suffocating it still clings to me hours after waking. The girl hung herself from the huge domed ceiling and left a man alone in the space to be haunted by her troubled shadow.

People came and went and the structure of the building rusted green and grey. I remember one woman wailing that she couldn't bear the though of the girl wrapping the rope around and around and around. The man just listened and felt the woman didn't know the half of it.

I think I was sometimes the man and sometimes the building itself. I felt the pain of the space so strongly I think I must have been within the walls and the rafters.

Now the dream is fading and the nausea of it all is being swept away by the mundane, like ancient dust under a dresser. But there are lingering bits of grey that the broom cant reach, the bits that nestle in corners for years until someone moves house and moves the dresser.

Wednesday, 7 November 2007

Forests and Wings

The vast canopy is on fire with colour and the forest floor crunches beneath bare feet.
When the seasons turn to this everything seems more alive, more so even than spring. Perhaps it is the anticipation of long sleep that causes such excitement, like little children before bedtime.

Step with me and our bare feet into the Dark Forest.