mottled amber oak leaves, colliding with, collecting on, the windscreen. cloaking the cracked tarmac of this crumbling country lane. out of place, a hidden strength, like summer lilac in late september, still clinging to the carved out cliffsides of silver thread falls. Advertisements
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 …
dragon’s mouth, fairy creek, sulphur and mid-summer heat. my fingers are sticky with wild blackberry honey, watch as bison roam under the shadow of thunderstorms. through bluebell and beargrass meadows. skirting the crumbling edges of bonewhite angel terraces. vapour clouds rise from the thin crust earth.
a suitcase, filled with earl grey, raspberry rose farmers market dark chocolate, ginger cordial, a recommendation of my fathers, cretan cookbooks, and a hand carved wooden cat. i pack overpriced magic creams, potions, powders, glitter and make a little room for hope, too gathered like fine dust to fill the spaces between things. take a deep breath, slow exhale, and fly west. my plane takes an unusual route, across the atlantic pushed a little further north by the gathering force of another hurricane. i wear an embroidered silk shirt and though swamped in my favourite cardigan i still shiver.
when i am strewn across continents when i am not writing you when i am wandering places you can’t, for now, i hope you remember that my dearest, most simple, most sacred and most grace-filled memory of this summer will not be, the evenings spent watching fjords move around me like strange, dark mirrors each swallowing the night under the pale glitter of a midnight sun, with it’s arctic glow turning thin cloud into silk and smoke and it won’t be the shutters of ivy-wrapped cottages hidden away in those ancient french villages or the sundials, the star maps, the train rides or cities so humid and crowded and all overwhelming me
i think we’re two travelers, each coloured in the different shades of grief and we’ve both been weaving stories, oh, all the places we have been but we are drawn to this shore, as if by some silver celestial string like how the moon lures the tide, may our ocean wash everything clean
i’ll be back in the winter, when the light is low to condense, rise, and crystalise these thoughts, into action. transforming fractal patterns given form something like the frost we’ll tread, a million sparkling galaxies gifted the briefest life in our frozen garden.
i weave dreams in the dying light intoxicated by foreign perspectives, illuminated by shifting horizons, and the dripping silver night. the seasons spread angularly around me. it’s september now, and the words i’ve been crafting grow more intricate, more cautious i hope they cling to you. (it is my intention to post something every day here for a month. we shall see what happens!)
you might not have noticed, but the night air is quivering. there’s a chill pouring in through the window. watch autumn unfurl, gather the last of your words like summer wildflowers and then press them on these pages, will this be the season that everything changes?