You circle low, and wing-out wide
With eyes that darken savage days
I watch you leave, all bitter sloe
With loveless talons; sigh and wait
On frozen ground, the pale-rime lie
Of shattered tongues of water, slow
You keep your secrets guarded well
A heart of lust; a silver mind.
Image courtesy of http://www.benhallphoto.com/
Addendum
“More often than not, music gives the message I can’t say.
Your weekend punchline was the KO, though. I only wish the rest of the audience could laugh along with me, could fully appreciate it as one of your best.
I wish you only luck, and love. You’ll need them. Maybe now we can actually speak as adults, without the veils of metaphor and imagery – or at least less so. I was as much at fault, and complicit, in my cowardice and naivety.
In the meantime, I have writing and a life to catch up with. Rest assured, you remain the sun – I need no other – but you have more lives to warm. I understand, and always did. But I wouldn’t want to lose you.
Fin. X”
(My dear friends, the creativity is back, and narrative flows. Method-writing really does have its benefits; I advocate talking to yourselves more often, or at least appearing to do so. It unblocks the mind.)
I once found a spiritual ancestor:
I stood there in the vintage emporium for about ten minutes. The price tag was thrifty, but I’d had a slugger of bills and had to be boring, dragging myself away.
But not before taking this photo.
The artist is Louis Shabner. Some fame in the 70’s, for his doe-eyed beauties. The same artist who made a haunting picture that hung in my grandparent’s 300 year old house, at the end of a long corridor; the ancestral home of my mother, lost to the green hills in Cheshire, which went to auction and broke my heart.
It was of a woman standing in brackish water, all tawny skin and black hair, arms crossed over her chest with a green-black forest at her back. I can only assume she had an epic metabolism to stand the cold.
Her eyes followed you down the corridor. She freaked people out, but I adored that painting; used to dream of the dark woodland behind her, and the long sliver of light-dark on the water, which looked like a pike.
This picture, The Falconer, reminds me more of the recurring dream I had as a child and through my teens – of a red-rock canyon surrounded by mountains, under a setting sun that never died. I was the last survivor of a battle, with all my friends and enemies dead around me, their blood washing into the red stones and turning them black. As I got older, the faces would change.
I haven’t had that dream for a long time now.
Raishimi33 