Category Archives: photography

Broken Fortress…

HM15 1281*

PC 963 Kraas turned and walked head-long into the sea breeze.

Her hair flicked in the wind like rampant flames.

“You know, I can’t help feeling we’ve missed a trick with this one.”

“It’s mentioned in the book,” replied Jaw-Dark pensively, “and in any case it’s a pleasant enough spot.” He paused and bent down to look through a large eye-shaped ‘blow-hole’ in the promontory.

“What’s that?” said Kraas.

“Well, that depends…” said Jaw-Dark.

“That depends upon what?”

“…Upon your perspective,” finished Jaw-Dark.

“Nothing is ever straight forward with you is it?”

“The Irish name for this and other similar landscape features is Poll na Seantuinne.”

“Which means?”

“‘Hole of the Old Wave’.”

Just then the sea crashed beneath the promontory and the foaming waves, in the mouth of the sea cavern, a hundred feet below could be clearly seen through the ‘chasm-hole’.

“Seems an apt description,” said Kraas, “if a tad un-nerving.” Her gaze followed the slow drag of the tide and then lifted to the sky where wisps of grey cloud scudded on the wind, “in the beginning,” she said, “everything was chasm and chaos.”

“There is though another interpretation.”

“Which is?”

Poll na Sean Tiene means ‘Hole of the Old Fire’.”

“Okay, I can see where that might fit in with some of their concerns. Especially with all this baleful eye stuff.”

“Personally though I prefer the third alternative…”

“Ever the story teller,” smiled Kraas, “Well, I’m waiting!”

Poll na Seantuine,¬† is the ‘Hole of the Old Woman.”

Kraas’ smile turned to a grimace, “Well, I wouldn’t go shouting that particular preference from the cliff tops if I were you,” she said through the grimace, and then added more seriously, “so which one is it?”

“Unfortunately for us and also quite possibly for them too, it is more than likely that it is all three of them.”

*

Swans…

*

‘Birds-of-the-Beyond’, Mountain-Ana called them.

She bought us a book.

The picture of the Lir-Clan huddled on a rock in the middle of a raging sea, slipping into Swan-Vests still remains, clear as each new day that dawns.

*

“They’re here!” she said, her eyes aflame.

“What are?”

“The-Birds-from-Back-of-Beyond.”

I smiled at her memory, “They’re where?”

“Our-Back-Field!”

“Not possible,” I said grabbing my coat.

But I was wrong.

It had rained heavily overnight and two swans now swam on an impossible lake in the middle of Our-Back-Field.

We watched them all morning and wept when they flew away.

*

Free Passage?…

 

*

‘It’s easy,’ she had said, ‘you believe the other-world to be greater than this one…’

‘Do I?’

‘You believe those that have passed can still see you…’

‘That’s true.’

‘…but you can’t see them?’

‘Not ordinarily, no.’

‘So there you go.’

Inescapable logic.

‘Yet, you believe life to be greater than death?’

‘I knew there would be a catch, one would certainly hope so.’

‘So what’s your problem? Get up, and walk forth… into life.’

Easy to say, much harder to do, but the corridor did look different…

The stone was gold-suffused-light.

Out of the old world into the blue…

*

Pipe Dream…

*

Maggot always gets his man…

Wherever they go.

However far they flee.

However cunningly they hide…

*

Maggot enters the Ol’ George:

legendary menagerie of care-worn dreamers.

This evening’s vibrantly clad gathering part to allow him to the bar.

His ‘thirties’ hat and summer rain-coat are still the heir to respect even in a place of ghosts.

*

‘Curious location for a meet.’

Maggot never questions his sources: the food and drink of his success.

Maggot takes a corner-table.

Out in the street the night is glowing gold…

*

Later… when moved,

a dart of tiny pink-and-blue feathers

drifts from his neck.

*

 

 

The Gift…

*

It is possible to box almost anything.

Thoughts…

Ideas…

Emotions…

In this way a whole life may be compartmentalised into secure, bounded segments of much more manageable proportions.

Bite sized pieces.

Or even, ‘shots’.

*

As everybody knows it is even possible to box one’s ears, so that only those things which compute are actually heard.

This is the way Spirit dies.

Blinkers, are boxes for the eyes…

*

In fact, about the only thing which it is not

possible to put into a box…

Is light.

*

This is strange…

But only because light,

is really the gift of a turning-year.

*

Brain Fog…

*

Months it has taken.

Months of meticulous research…

Meetings in the darkest of disreputable corners where conspiracies are born and take fevered flight across stormy nights.

All roads lead to the lair of the Black Beast.

That fell apparition has stalked a thousand and one fetid nightmares…

But no longer.

Somewhere in that fog she lurks.

Poised and ready to pounce.

Her eyes like red saucers.

Her yellow fangs bared over a snarl.

But I have a secret weapon.

As I lope into the grey my fingers curl around and clutch, the luminescent fuzz on…

The Ball of Power!

*

‘Cadged’?…

*

Did Turpin’s Troupe

Drop him

Deep in the Soup?

*

That Devil’s cast of scallywags

and wild haired, grinning hags…

who still adorn the plastered walls

in Glory’s glossy prima-face.

There now to tease and please

the local populace.

*

And tell their tales of times much less genteel

when stench and reek

roamed every wayward street.

*

But how, to climb up an’ out

the grime of fetid mire

where every winsome wench

would rightly kiss and tell…?

*

Black Jake, alas

went on the make…

and now he’s hoisted higher

than ol’ church spire…

where they watch him fry in hell.

*

Flight…

*

As the narrow-boat’s snout tickled the under-bridge,

Black-Jack cut the engine and peered through the white gloom…

A landing-official waved his stray arm in greeting, the lights beyond him intimated warmth and festivity.

An Owl screeched!

Black-Jack turned to see a huge moon crest the tree-line: he re-engaged the engine, pointed the craft and leaped onto the tow-path.

The barge, its cargo of Alpine-Fur and Lebanese-Spice secure, slid off, a long-snail on its trail…

The official ran towards the way-ward craft, hollering…

Instead of Black-Jack?

A plume of Blue-Smoke hung,

like a scar across the face of the moon.

*