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.

Journey through twilight

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She’s lost her head, they said, shaking their own in order to be. There’s rules, they whispered, a little too loudly. Your dreams are for slumber. Don’t walk in the wilds.

So she wandered a little, too far down their path, and found that she lost whatever was needed. It suited the moment, for paths can be winding, deceptively sinuous, but always on track. But little by little, her footprints diminished. One day she looked and the ground lay bare.

Sigh.

The trees stood naked and just kept on growing. The grass died in Autumn. The moon rose and fell. The rain bled on hard times. The days met the night sky. The sun met uncertainty and wind fallowed wild. The path kept on winding, receptively open. The journey lay forward. She didn’t look back.