All posts tagged: prose

hyacinthine

approaching daybreak, and once again the snow that was falling has turned to rain and my hyacinth heart bursts from flower to flame, petals as blood, it is always the same.       i’ve been reading about cladonia cristatella, and white-striped parasol scilla. in less than a month, i am going to be 28. i’ll either take myself to paris on a train, or else i’ll drive to see hopefully thousands of snowdrops, again, there’s a special walk you can do around the gardens of a grand old house near to where my father’s studio used to be, they’ve dozens and dozens of different breeds. things that don’t help me fall asleep: the silmarillion, valerian tea, worrying. Advertisements

preston sands

it’s rather a windy mid-january day, and i am in torbay, wandering about the rolling cliffside gardens of a fading 19th century mansion. celandine, winter heliotrope, snowdrops, snapdragon, there are several wooden benches too, for sitting down and admiring the view, and there’s a particularly ornate, but switched off, water fountain, weather-worn ancient sea gods and sirens, still proud, but paint peeling. there’s even a crocus or two, though they’re not yet in full bloom. all about me, dew drops are clinging to every blade, and over the ocean, clouds and sunbeams alternate, shadows stretching and contracting. the sunlight fades, illuminates, and fades again, and on the horizon, there’s the distant, but eventual, promise of rain. i find my way to paignton’s preston sands, where stephanie tells me that each seventh wave is the strongest. there are strandline seashells of every sort, washed up onto shore. whelk, whorled, silver striped and slipper limpets, all caught in the rippling ribbons and ridges of shale and shingle saltation, sea-polished cobble and perfectly spherical pebbles aplenty.  a black …

coral and pearl / 2019

trembling girl, cut from coral and pearl delicate, like harp strings, and hummingbirds or the first winter snowdrops, pale petals unfurled how determined they rise from the frost-covered earth. you have made yourself home, out of canyon and cove you have crowned yourself queen, in california gold time tosses, like blossoms, us each to its fragrant wind but you’re wrapped in a light that can never be dimmed.     *     new years eve, torquay. there are three flowers on the table. two white freesias, silk-petalled and splashed gold, scented citrus-sweet, and there’s a single nerine, too, or guernsey lily, the place they first grew originally. named after the nereids, the sea nymphs that would protect sailors and their ships, in the language of flowers, nerines represent vulnerability. freesias, trust. each bloom or bud sits in its very own ginger beer bottle, labels half peeled off. fever tree, iron & wine’s fever dream spinning about in my head. an almost astonishingly pretty girl/goddess, in a pale grey lace dress, is sitting by the …

december diaries

* december 24th. it’s christmas eve, finally. there are silver star sequins, chestnut peelings, all over the floor, the turkey is swimming in a bath with star anise, the children are adorable, extremely excited, but sleeping now, and i’m trying to decide whether the word synodic is acceptable for use in a song. probably not, but i’ve tuned the top two strings of my guitar down a touch, and it’s as if an entirely new world has opened up, E A D G A D. these december days, so far, have been soft-focused in fog, muted by mist, there’s been frustratingly little frost this month, and no snow, but most mornings are silver soft, raindrops, pared back beauty, slow and sleepy. and, i’ve been feeling as if i’ve love spilling out of me, more even than usual, more than i know what to do with, and that touches everything, life-affirming, but in a delicate way. i think i’m too much of a romantic. i’ll have to work on this.  * i hardly sleep, and when i do, more often than not, i find my way, eventually, to a silver tossing sea. sometimes, it swallows me. once …

aureate

opalescent glass bead raindrops shatter as they hit the surface of the water, mirror still, aureate, as autumn’s chill spills over this seaside town all sheets of gold between slate cloud what is it that you think you’ve found? the sun sets down his radiant crown.

dust ladders.

touch deep time. this desert night is silver-tinged, and silent. you climb dust ladders into the light and i am early morning freeway speeding, west through the mojave. just a beaming string of refulgent headlights piercing two inky infinities. we are all suspended somewhere in-between.

constellations

heartbreak, and the pacific coast highway. patches of scattered wildflowers, rolling gradually into norwegian arctic coral beaches, sun-bleached bright white against crystal coves of the clearest turquoise. aching knees, too many airplanes, and a rented bicycle. all of these things brought me to this brief patch of autumn, these last few weeks of a september, misty low and tumbling grey. similarly to the changing seasons, my thoughts move more gently now, lulled by the shifting of light and by the flickering candle-glow of memories and contemplation. i am wrapped in constellations, in the constellations of him, my old winter’s friend who, for years now, has in shining armour, leapt to my defense.

manot (the magnitude of this magic)

    it’s 4am, august 17th, 2016. i’m wide eyed awake, and again, raising mountains in my mind – they’re the kind of peaks that can’t be climbed, and i just can’t figure it out, how to go about housing these flustered thoughts, each amplified by the low and heavy night, it’s bottomless, almost, dense with a silence so thick it threatens tangibility. i can almost reach out and with trembling fingers touch it. the night drips like ink, deep indigo spilling all over me, near-suffocating. can i be frighteningly honest? i’m struggling. soon, though. soon, sheets of sunrise will pour angularly, slanted and staggered through the painted pale blue shutters, and the thrown-wide-open windows , of this little limestone cottage, all covered in ivy, honeysuckle, and wandering fruit vines. how many hundred summers have these sun-bleached farm and manor houses seen? and, soon, the dappled gold gentle warmth of another late summer morning will set my skin aglow, turn my hair to straw, and the bedroom, with it’s net canopy and creaking oak floorboards, …