Scotia

Marching pines bleached white in fog
Cascade of dying ferns
Waterfall of decay.
Liminal space.
Yards and lorry parks
The signs viewed back to front
All pole and bracket.
Truncated walls and tangled coppice of
trees.
The past is guesswork.

So many turbines
Seem to power the rainbow
Which forms above the town
Watery mirage
A headfuck of light.

Taking the edge from the squat square blocks squeezed tightly and meanly in the middle of a lonely land.

The river is full
The future is guesswork.

A willful suspension

I know nothing of god's words, only silence
But here I can believe that creation is majesty

In the kill.
In the dripping red tooth and claw
In the light, soft and dappled on a floor of tinder dry leaves

The water cascade pounding itself into white foam on the rocks is my fears destroying themselves.

I know nothing of past lives but here I am reborn.

Incline

Sky is lead heavy, the hill is hard.
The killing field.
Machine thrum.

All there is is the death of summer
A heavy, lazy anxiety. Restless stirring itching biting.

Tomorrow is coming. Now is not forever.

The cat's claws.

You look like that person off the TV.
Your quest was successful.
It really suits you
To look like someone else

Valley

Tall purple flowers from tangles of weed
Rusted metal and rotten wood
Posts askew and wire bowed

Silence between bird calls
Silence waits before the wind stirs the leaves
A smell of decay

This is an empty land

How to not succeed at blogging

1: Do not put pictures on your blog
2: Don't have any discernible theme to your blog
3: Write about subjects that don't interest the majority of people
4: Update it sporadically
5: Alternate between really long pieces about nothing in particular and really short pieces about nothing in particular
6: Choose titles which rarely describe the content of the post
7: Ignore all the advice in 'How to succeed' at blogging posts.

Lose one, find one.

A lone blackbird sings.

The air is peaceful and the scent of summer pervades everything. Wind that makes no sound save for the rustle of branches heavy with leaves. Dusk on a day when the night will never properly set, the sky a deep blue calm with dawn not more than a few miles beyond the horizon.

Static. Scalpel. Jagged. Glass. Wire wrapped tight around flesh, taught, cutting, wire, flesh, pulled, slicing.

The dawn is never more than a few hours away. The night is not silent.

Cold feeling in the pit of your stomach. Cold feeling. Acid, bile, ulceration and fear. Fear you cannot name. Fear that claws and crawls like a spider up your spine and grasps you round the neck sinking it’s fangs right into the soft indentation you learnt sometime you don’t remember, from someone you don’t remember was called the nape.

Maybe you read the word in a book. A hardbook book, no dust cover, just a faded green fabric, embossed with burnished gold, full of the musty smell of illustration plates. Pen and ink and typesetting. An Edwardian child in a magical land.

The lone blackbird sings.