on monday i saw a shell on a beach - a beautiful shell on a delicate beach. except it wasn't a shell and it wasn't a beach. it was beautiful though, and delicate. i thought about that shell on tuesday.
The bay cradled The Hungry Gull, rocking her gently from side to side and Ffooks, his baritone, berceuse, just beneath the pitch of the engine, wooed her. Knott couldn’t make out the words or the tune just yet but, as the town faded, everything settled into a rhythm - the motor, the motion, the timber … Continue reading The Beguiling.
"Bow low to the cello, French horn & bellows." Her songs barrel in the barroom beams. Her Samba unravels. She learned in the mirror the poems of Brazilian queens. The elegant prose, she hones all through winter, is wreathed in magic & music & dreams. collage & acrylic … Continue reading Barroom beams.
The old man passed over the rooftop of Brinton farm and Middlely. The night orange hiss glowed above the county towns to the north. The countryside. He threaded the stars orange spangleblue and white. There was a sound that followed him. Not the hissing electricity sparking from the shoulders of the pylons over the towns … Continue reading Float On.
unfolded sheets and cornered pages, cobalt, rising from the blanket, found a world within the drawer - everything unpainted. the velour shadow of the curtain, quiet and thin and barely moving, bows before the wounded evening - everything unpainted.
I see her, Little Annie, in a shaded space on the far side of the street, vixen, stood against her trestle, beneath a tarpaulin that shivers. It is draped and slung with floating dresses, throws and scarves; tie-dye collage against a background of movement, of brickwork, of shapes and faces. She is weightless, appears so, almost … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.