i crossed the great western deserts to get here, and now i am standing on the shore of some semiotic, or synodic, sea. veiled grey horizon, fine mists rising and separating me from the sonorous. there’s a scattering of sandbanks, shoals, islets, atolls. and something’s hiding, behind them, it’s not all oceanic expanse. i think sound is emergence, it urges a certain sort of person to dip their toes into that primordial water. Advertisements
the sun sets. digitalis obscura into forget-me-not blue. whilst all above you, the stars are five-petalled, pale yellow and scattered a little like wildflowers about an eternal woodland meadow. it should be enough, that the heart blossoms, breaks, and blossoms, in love.
dusk drops sun fades evening shadows elongate and marbled skies are parted by a pouring dreamlike light i lace together day and night i lace together day and night
i watched the whole world bloom into colour, one season into another looming lavender skies promised me thunder springtime on the edge of the mountain. then the days, growing softer and slower, one season into another humid evenings and wildflower honey, like sticky-sweet accents, all foreign to me. the last golden sigh of summer, one season into another a slow exhaling september the last of the sunflowers bow their heads. we pierce the darkest days of winter, one season into another holly, mistletoe, frost in the garden then stained glass, then snowdrops, then soon enough spring.
home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water. home is a whistling kettle bubbling, boiling, hissing, home is the kitchen windows steaming. home is a collection of miscellaneous, dishwasher chipped mugs, set haphazardly in crammed cupboards, home is ‘a spoon of sugar for me’, and gifted whittards’ tins, a whole world of tea. home is crimson painted walls, and flaking woodchip, home is barefooted tiptoeing terracotta tiles, and fraying persian carpet. home is the ticking away of a grandfather clock, each hour it will chime, home is the peachy evening gentle glow of fading daylight, dappled through single pane glass, a window from which you will watch the seasons pass. home is hanging crystal prisms catching the sun, casting patterns on the bedroom wall. home is a cluttered desk covered in photographs, potions, powders, notebooks, you’ve neglected some or all. home is cast iron pots and brass pans, the scents of garlic, rosemary, wafting up the stairs. home is wholesome, healing food, soups, stews, broths, and rising loaves of bread. home …