There was a Raven called Wilf
Fairly quiet, he kept to himself,
‘What do you do all the time?’ I asked.
He blinked his mirrored eye.
‘What do you expect of a bird?’
he said, ‘I observe, observe, observe,
and I fly when I need to fly.”
‘And does that make you happy?’ I asked
He nodded his head, ‘Oh yes,
my happiness is complete,
far more than you could ever guess,
but I also like talking to you
and dropping a seed here and there.’’
I smiled, ‘Ah yes. Your troubles are seldom and few.”
I watch the Raven
the Raven watches me
me stuck here on the ground
him high up in his tree
he cocks his head
does he question me?
wondering how i should answer
I nod back
I feel some sense of brotherhood
with this bright eyed bird
when he squawked and chuckled
did he think I understood?
who knows more
a man or a raven?
was he a man before?
will i become a bird?
if I knew the mind of a raven
maybe i could fly
if he thought he knew my mind
would he fly away?
I feel the need to speak
feel the feelings that are his
does he see how fragile
how unfathomable everything is?
does a raven even care
and should i?
i cock my head to the raven
he nods back
worthy of a read – as is much else on this site
Four cottages stood in a silent row
out on the windswept lonely moor.
People came and people went
but no one came to the old mans door.
The old mans home stood empty now
autumn leaves littered the floor
a smell of must hung in the air,
winters damp and lack of care.
Seeking a home I entered in
Knowing nothing at all of him.
Like an intruder i climbed the stair
to a room, quiet, stark and bare.
An empty bed, the covers pulled back
an empty chair, a water glass
half full, a film of tired dust.
A hollow, a dip at the pillows heart,
round imprint of a sleeping head,
all that is left of the old man, dead.
He lay alone for two long weeks
abandoned in his silent bed
the changing moons of time and tide
allow no traveller to abide
life ebbs and flows with changing seas
regardless of our errant pleas
all useless thought is vanished now
no virtue in the why and how
we wake from dreams to deeper dreams
nothing ever as it seems
truth lives within the loving heart
no souls are ever far apart
to the stars our fate is bound
we are not lost but truly found
the clock shows the time
solitary dandelion
sowing seeds of summer
Faded in black in white, about nineteen-thirty,
Two boys sit on a window ledge, that house,
Narrow street between mountains, back, front,
A valley that smells of coal dust and soap,
Where the women polish the doorsteps daily
Dark red, down on their knees in gossip.
This photograph says so much about them,
Even then. My uncle sits prim and nervous
Worried he may slip from his perch,
Buttoned up in his best suit and collar
Ready for chapel and prayers I suppose.
His round face in glasses, held stiff.
While my father leans sideways, younger
By two years, swinging a leg and squinting
With the sun in his eyes and his knees all scuffed.
Dreaming of music and organ pipes
And the catapult hidden in his Sunday pocket,
A strong wish to be off there and up in the hills.
These brothers stayed like this all their lives
Never truly following the same paths;
One toeing the line for all he was worth
The other refusing to break his own rules,
Always the wild one up in the hills
Frustrated by all the restrictions of life.
nice drawings of some places i am pretty sure i have been to :)
There is something magical about creating a place or a world that previously only existed inside your own head. It’s impossible to draw (at least it is for me) an imaginary landscape without wondering about the people who inhabit it, or the history of it, or the flora and fauna that fill it.
Some of my landscapes are very much rooted in the real world, the lake district is never far from the tip of my pen, while some have only the loosest foundations here on earth.
Only one of my landscapes exists as is, Slater’s Bridge in Little Langdale in the Lake District. I really must get back there with a sketchbook. It’s an amazingly beautiful place.
Slater’s Bridge
People are very rare in my drawings, partly because I’m pretty terrible at drawing them, but partly because I want to be the person in the picture. I don’t…
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the sun, the shine,
the shadows fall beneath the trees,
tranquil trance of leaves, triumphant,
leaning, lofty, lovely, light
the love, the lost, the found, the learning,
light of love, looping flight
flight to night, the moon, the stars,
stars that lead the navigator
star of wonder, star of hope
tent of sky, singing songs
sounds of battle, lullaby and funeral marches
swords and strangers, the strong, the mighty
might have been, may be still, morning comes,
comes with chimes, chime of bell,
bells of silver, shiver, shatter, shards,
sentinels of silence, stone
stones in water, stones in sea,
the rivers rush, rolling, waters rising into cloud,
rain and rainbow. what of us?
What of us? we were. we are.
walking, wandering, wondering why,
where and when, will it, wont it come again
the sun, the shine and is this all?
are we really all so small?
the sun, the shine, a burst of light,
burgeons, blossoms, blooms and grows,
glows and gladdens, glancing eyes,
eyes that see, the world, the life unfold,
enfold, enshrine, delightful,
dancing, woven in delicious dream,
the globe, the glow, eternal, bright,
entrances me – this glorious world
shadows dancing on the wall in firelight
music heard far off, the shade behind the waterfall,
a leaf turning in light, falling, landing rots to dust
the echo of a voice across a valley far away, sun sinking,
frost that silvers the hilltops, the cocks crow at dawn,
a sense that all is born to die, overpowered, as it must
light reflected in a lake, rainbows over cornfields,
swallows gliding on the high still air, above the wood,
the dark smell of mud, these are things i trust
bring what life gives or go as it will
night into day, day into night,
underneath all this one dazzling beauty,
shining bright,
burning light,
conquering fruitless fear
The Dreaming Path 