The River Knows

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The village is a walk through ferns, following a goat track. I heard the goat herder’s wild animal cries at sunrise and the passing sounds of bells, bleats and hoofs sure-footed on stone. But I have no desire to go to the village. Instead I go to the waterfall to wash the city from my body and remember the sweet caress of the sun.

The Flesh and Bones

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I am the muse, the photographer.and the scribe.

Which came first? A reasonable question.

The answer remains mysterious.

Ethereal as the twisted trees in a silent forest.

Shadowy as a room painted with sunlight.

Fluid as a heartbeat felt beneath my naked breast.

 

I’ve been working on this project for a couple of years now and excited about it’s birth into the world!

Letter to Clare

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I don’t know what to say to you. My mind has been stolen by the sound of the waves. The rhythm is tireless and speaks to each day. I don’t know what to think, under the unceasing sun. My logic has melted and sits in my hands. There’s time to be hopeful, to look at our fears. There’s no room for comfort but always for tears. I laugh at the vastness of empty belongings. The trees know the answer is deeply connected. The mountain is solid, yet crumbles away. No-one is wiser. There’s nothing to say.