Tag: Journal
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 27 March 2026: 06:43 Two pigeons. A sharp rap to the skull,feathers drifting.Love’s old, foolish arithmetic. © MB 2026
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 24 March 2026: 07:05 Yes, this is the burdenYes, this is the blessing. To be the bridgebetween the blackbird’s throatand the world’s grey static. © MB 2026
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 21 March 2026, 07:34 I.a sparrow slipsinto the colour of barknothing left movingI look where it disappearedand cannot find it again. II.late morning lightwe stand where we can be seen,faces turned outward.Once, even we knew how todisappear…
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 20 March 2026, 09:17 I.a candle for hera candle for hima finger pressed in soil fertility in a seed sownon this day of bonfires. II.Ôstara morning light burns from our flames.warmth in the soilthe seed takes what…
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 19.03.26, 11:46 eve before equinoxwe keep to winter’s last breath,palms in cooling soil.no fire, not yet. in the fieldthe hare lifts its head, listening. Happy Ostara to all who celebrate it. © MB 2026
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand, nothing forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 18.03.26, 11:28 windows left ajarthe smell of soap and wet soildrifting through the street. first warm day of springcars washed, gardens speaking back,doors open at last.the doctor’s wife tells me:he died there, weeks ago. © MB 2026
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10.10: The Last Clear Map
To Avignon: The Last Clear Map 28 September (waiting in ferry queue at Newhaven)I.maps dream in the gloveboxthe sunrise is our compassour clocks are made of salt II.the sea pulls at usaway from white cliffs writinglove letters in chalk 29 SeptemberI.journey’s labyrinth —coins, a prayer, the bells ring,my soul leaves, fed by light. 30 SeptemberI.black…
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26 July: of Leather & Weather
a journal 26 July — The Road Trip Prelude 04:somethingThe sun arrived first,prying open the day with gold-tipped fingers.I gathered dew from the garden — tiny pearls of morning —then let sleep pull me back like a tide reclaiming shells. 07:30Bamboo.Not a sentence — just a word.A baptism by syllable.It struck the silence like a…
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9 Jan: Journal of Thoughts
Four Days of a Hawk in Woburn Forest On Monday,a falcon took a pigeonwho was lostin its own little snowstorm. On Tuesday,we discovered the falconwas a hawk. On Wednesday,the hawk fell fast on a rat,its eye and tooth and bonequenched no appetite. On Thursday,the hawk swung a single arc,and straddled a happy little rabbiton the…
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12 Dec: The Relevance
The Relevance The sun light,it’s like yellow roses. A sky blue peepshow between clouds that spring and foam. Dad’s painting seascapes again.He keeps a wandering eyeon my sister and I. We walk the beach.Looking down. Beachcombing. I’m always on the move, I’m told,for fear of calcifying, Dad says. One day I’ll look up that wordso…
It's Still Life 