Tales from the edge of the morning sky

She had called the emergency services. ‘A drowning,‘ she had explained when the ambulances arrived. This after the police car and officers arrived along the narrow one-sided lane, that led past the sunken church to the meadows, and then along the narrow pathway to the stretching curve of  beach.

She had explained the clothes, the abandoned shoes, the splash that had rippled in a sudden tearing of waves across what had now become an uneasy silence.

They had brought a sniffer dog that had taken the scent from the garments and then followed the wind blown footsteps to the very edge of the lagoon.

Officers had discovered the abandoned car parked in front of the churchyard and were puzzled by the pile of driftwood on the rear seat, a neatly carved wooden key ring, with the keys still left in the ignition.

‘So love, you heard the splash, found the clothes and heard a scraping noise on the beach?’

She had acknowledged this statement and was left wondering if he had heard her at all. 

It had happened. 

Her voice was still shaking, her stomach turning, Cassie was now running around confused and bewildered by all the commotion.

A small crowd of locals, hikers  and campers from the nearby site had gathered behind the constable who stood blocking the access to the edge of the water. His arms stretched as if he was saving them from an indelicate truth.

‘Yes, I thought I saw, I did see, a glimpse of something else above the tide, beyond the beach…’ she was certain, but doubted he would believe her. 

He scratched his ear, leaned forward and called into his Walkie-Talkie.

‘Call the ‘copter, we might need to look along the bar, across the beach…’ There was a muffled, cackled reply. He released the call button and looked over her shoulder at where the search dog was pointing.

Forepaw lifted, alert and frozen, the sniffer dog was clearly indicating something was awry. 

The officer again scratched his head, puzzled, uncertain and turned himself to look back at the car park, beyond the church.

‘It won’t be long,’he thought to himself,’until the whole world is watchin’ us again!’

Just then he heard a murmur from the growing crowd of onlookers, then a cry. He turned towards them all. He saw a huddle of shocked and surprised faces, mouths open, hands aloft, staring eyes and his constable turning his back to them all. Hands forgotten, arms akimbo, he gaped at what he saw. 

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

October fields 

before the fall, 

ploughed deep 

and long

 ‘afore winters call, 

for the skies 

are wrapped 

in a thousand stars, 

of spring and time 

soon to be,

and remembered, 

in the stillness 

and passing 

of hurrying hours

beside the silent waves 

and restless sea.

And so to leave 

this month of days, 

the door, 

the windows open, 

the trees afire, 

in this dawn, 

the first, of winter 

to become, 

and wander the lanes 

alone and silent 

beside the moon, 

reflecting shadows 

of daylight, 

that fall too soon 

and matter to none. 

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Barrels and kegs, bobbed in a dispersed crowd of debris. The winds howled and raged, the sky stripped and torn, as the rising moon seemed to race across the beaches like ships overhead. 

They were knee deep in the waters that frothed and foamed around them. There were fewer cries of help now, the rocks just off shore, jagged and razor like, had done their worst. Men lay on the beach, dead or exhausted, bedraggled and bundled, like sacks of stones, flesh and sand.

Some lived, some were dead, eyes open, seeing nothing, faces frozen in masks of terror and oddly, he thought,  submission: the boundaries between life and death, broken.

They pulled sailors onto the shore, a few were strong enough to help them. The crates and bobbing casks of contraband they avoided, knowing their weight, worth and danger, even this close to the shore.

‘The last?’ He asked of Emily. She looked exhausted, her skin as pale as the ribbons of moonlight, her hair in waves and tangles of salt and seaweed. Her clothes pressed unseemly against her body, revealing every curve flattened and forgotten: her beauty crushed by the tide. He pushed his thoughts aside and asked again,’Emily, surely, the last, come let us sit, rest awhile and see, if who and any, are still alive.’

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

The dog pulled on her line, her owner called her back, but she pulled insistently towards the pile of clothes on the narrow footpath. She walked along the edge of the fields most days, enjoying the changing weather, the patterned skies, the whisper of distant waves and the shining light of the sea.

‘What is it? What is it?’ She implored Cassie, as she pulled harder this time, her lead as taught and tense as her tail.

The dog whined. Then she saw the clothes. A distant, dull splash caught her attention as they both moved rapidly towards the unkempt and abandoned shirt, trousers and shoes.

Cassie sniffed and whined again, this time with her nose pointing through the still, moist air, over the lagoon, and the footsteps imprinted across the empty beach.

She looked over towards where she heard the broken waters, the splash that had ruffled her attention and concern earlier.

She screamed. Dropped the lead. Cassie immediately ran to the edge of the lagoon barking and then began whining: her ears flat, nose pointed and slowly began to growl in a low rumble of fear and concern.

‘What… did you see..Cassie come here at once!’

Cassie ignored her as they both heard the crack and scrape of something landing.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

She turned and for what seemed like an eternity she looked through him, the ghost of himself, back to the other place and time from where he thought he was from.

He could feel her bringing him into focus. He gaze like a lens bringing firmness and purpose to his own. Slowly, so slowly it seemed, her eyes recognised him. The distance of place and time fell away.

He was with her.At last by her side.

She beckoned to him. Her face turning from recognition, to hope, then madness, just as the storm itself. He lifted his eyes with hers, followed her pointing arm, beyond the thrashing waves and the wild frothing mouths of horses and out to the torn and broken sea.

With a great lurch and crash of timbers, a ripping and tearing of what seemed the very fabric of place and time, the ship crashed, rolled and roared, resting amongst the gales and scream of tide and wind upon the ragged rocks.

They held each other as the sailors jumped into the teeth of drowning waves and turmoil.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

She was on her knees now as he swam the last yards to the shore. He was exhausted, heavy and felt as much a part of the elements as he was within himself.

‘Perhaps,’ he thought out loud, ‘I was always here. Always now,’ he swallowed water, choked, the brackish salty water tasted like the metallic skies that raced over head.

Emily’s screaming pulled him from his introspection, and his focus wavered as the remaining waters pulled him towards the berm.

‘No! No!’ She screamed as the ship towered above her, a great, fragile skeleton, it’s sails torn, it’s masts broken like matchsticks. He could see it clearly, in every detail,  as he clambered, bedraggled up the slope, the leaning, rolling ship magnified by the lens of roaring air above the shifting shingle.

‘No! No! No!’ She cried out again, flinging her arms like branches of an abandoned tree in the gale, bereft of leaves and hope as she looked out to the anonymous storm and the raging sea.

He slipped and fell as he struggled towards her.

‘Emily! Emily!’ He shouted, fiercely against the rapture of the wind.

‘Emily! Emily!’

The stones were like heavy plates of inertia as her overcame his own and weight and seemingly the weight of the world he lifted himself into the full force of the storm. The raindrop were like stinging bullets, the wind raged against his very being, pushing, pressing, pummelling his body, his hope, his soul, as he stumbled towards her.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Again, he had the choice. And this time he stepped over himself. Flicking off his shoes, tearing his shirt off, releasing his trousers to the sand at his feet he ran and plunged deep into the beckoning waters.

The water was surprisingly warm, but heavy and still. The thickness of it made him struggle at first until he stopped fighting. A crowd of birds had flown into the sky as his dive had cut the sky reflected waters into ribbons and ripples of storm and cloud.

Overhead the wind whipped and whistled as the birds wheeled, arched and fell in the unpredictability of the tattered and torn streams of air. The rain hissed off the surface, the sky darkened still further, in gales and blasts of thunder.

He could see her clamber up the bank, a bedraggled figure as ragged as the ship and sails that towered over her as it came ever closer to the shingle beach.

He was nearly upon the other side. The pull and tug of the waters, heavy, as he balanced his need to get to her as swiftly as possible and yet preserve enough energy for the beaching when it inevitably came.

He chanced a look behind him. He could just see the church in the meadow, so close, so very close to the shore. The sky seemed to press down upon the roof, the island of trees planted to protect both the church and the thinning congregations, flailed in every direction, tossing wildly in a kind of frenzy that made his steady swim into the past even more unreal.

He felt her calling and turned back towards the bar and Emily.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

The mizzen, main and foremasts pointed like crooked fingers to a moon that had risen in bouts of blindness, high ahead, in the rush of clouds, ragged and broken, tearing in blinks of shadow, darkness, and fleeting moments of broken light.

The roar of sea and sky flung the silence that they shared into the beaten grass beneath their feet. They were standing now. Supporting each other, leaning almost horizontally into the blast.

It was happening again. He couldn’t hold her. She slipped out of his grasp as her corporeal form seemed to dissipate into the heavy suddenness of rain that thundered into the lagoon, with a thousand heartbeats of silence upon the marram topped dunes.

She ran. He could see her still. Kicking off her coat, shawl, and shoes, she plunged into the fleet and started to swim, struggling against the pull of the wind and the hidden grasp of the waters.

She was strong. Again he saw her. And again he questioned himself. It always ended here. The explosive breach of the bar, the immense crash and collapse of the schooner as it lurched high on a monstrous wave, then hit, scraped and shattered against the screaming pebbles and the seething backwash of the flood.

He could see the men jump from horizontal masts, broken like matchsticks, jump from the vertical gunwales. See them all slip, fall and struggle, as the ship lurched against the breach, trapped.

She reached the berm, the crescent of shingle, and crawled heavily up the incline, drenched and exhausted. She stopped. Turned. Waved at him. Beckoned for him to follow. He saw beyond the bar, further out to sea, a second crescendo of waves coming in. 

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

‘John, John,’ she whispered again, ‘Are we there yet?’

He turned and looked out across the fleet, beyond the skies and to the edge of his world. Quietly he whispered back

‘Almost my love, almost, take me back, take me back to the storm once again. 

And all at once, the sky seemed to seethe and  darken.

As if the world had been shaken, held in the grasp of ferocious hands, the view shattered into thunderous rain. There was no difference between the clash and roar of the bar of rounded stones and the hardness of pebbles, as the sea mightily pounded in gusts of grey and steel against the broken beach.

He held her tight. Gasping for breath as she tried to free herself from him, break free and run. Run madly, crazily, into the wind that threatened to hurl them both like rag dolls into the open jaws of a screaming sky.

They could both see it. Against the horizon.Like a splattered fly against the glass. A ship leaning over. Sails torn and flapping. Figures like ants struggling to right the ship that was threatening to capsize as it rolled down and along great walls of waves and sinking reflections of a raging, simmering, sky. 

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

He felt her hand press his own. Reassurance. Affirmation. He never really knew.

Each time anew.

The grass was over grown again. Few people came here. Even fewer knew the place as he did. The immense skies, a constant theatre of changing clouds, above the great moving silence of the sea. And behind the great berm, the haven for all with wings and calling, the lagoon of calm and unruffled waters that mirrored the beauty of the place.

They stepped over the low, now dry, run of the spring, the damselflies darting busily, scooping a myriad of nats, clouds of activity,in the late afternoon warmth and sun.

The kissing gate led further, as the pathway edged the mud and marram grasses at the edge of the unkempt abandoned fields.

She held his hand tighter. They were coming to their place, a refuge from the winds that twisted the trees in knots and branches, all bent and wrapped in invisible hands from the westerlies that had pushed ship and sail along the channel behind the Isle of Portland, for generations.

The path was mostly overgrown here. The fence rotten and fallen, a few sheep grazed upon the borders, seagulls cried overhead and the wind sighed and fell, sighed and fell, ripening across the rippling wheatgrass.

‘Here,’ he heard her whisper, ‘here will do just fine.’ Emily’s voice was as light as the breeze. He could feel her summer dress ripple against his bare legs, almost smell her perfume as they sat down together on the rug he had brought with him from the car.

‘John,’ she whispered, softly into his ear, ‘John, can you see me again, am I still real for you?’

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Fleet

Almost hidden. Along the path, beside the cottages, parallel to the cobbled road, the sunken old church was hidden from view. The bend in the road took most drivers, walkers, and the occasional cyclist, past the new church to the camping and caravan park that huddled, straggling in knots along the thin strip of land that separated the folding waves of the fields from the lagoon, the shifting shingle of the bar, and beyond, the empty skies and further still, the sullen sea.

They walked to the gate, lifted the latch and followed the footpath hand in hand, under the glistening thousands of silver green leaves that rustled drily in the late afternoon wind.

The pathway was firm underfoot, the sand compacted, with a thin layer of grass, moss and clipped clover, that led them deeper into the dusk and the looming nave of the abandoned place of former worship.

The flood of 1824 had breached the wall of shingle, the nine mile scimitar of moving stones that protected the lagoon from the channel. The weathered headstones pointed like blunted fingers at the low passing clouds. The wind blew again in great sighs, blustery whispers, moaning gently to the forgotten dead.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Tonight (Time and Distance)

It’s windy tonight. 

The telegraph wires rolling under the skies, skimming clouds, racing inland from the sunsetting west. 

And the road winds, grey in haste and evening black, a distant car growls and blinks, hurrying homeward before the hiss and blow of the last of showers. 

For above, there is a racing moon behind the skies, the silence of stars, the cusp of shattered hillsides, the end of summer, slipping into August.

For the end of days still holds, and yet stands within the ancient oak,its leaves crisp, dry.

Crumpled greens at the crossroads, where an empty lane from the twilight east runs, flows, into the last fires and glows of a fading west.

And just here, here beside the red letter box, the abandoned footpath, the ancient sign blindly pointing into a trespassing dark, there are no footsteps.

Just byways, the whispers of passing hours beneath the hidden churchyard.

The bell tower chiming into the gloaming, calling, calling into the memories of a distance long since passed.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Six bells

Six bells,

the first call 

to morning,

I’d never believe 

it was so still 

and July, 

for the early morning 

is with mist 

and wreathes 

of hanging clouds, 

the summer heat 

has simply gone, 

slipped under 

the warning bark 

of crows, 

for the earth 

is wet, 

with furrows 

of running water, 

like afterthoughts, 

forgotten thoughts, 

empty thoughts, 

the runnels 

of memories, 

the collapsing dreaming 

of the lost

and drowning 

of spring, 

and although

the balcony is empty, 

chairs glistening 

in the cool 

and dawning wind, 

facing blindly, 

the blank disc 

of silver grey, 

the hidden hands

of a weakening sun.

August…waits, 

behind the closing 

summer dark.

As the  crows bark 

again, 

and again

following 

the six bells 

still chiming.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Storm

It’s here, 

ominous, 

the sky deepening, 

the black dusk

in dark fists 

of clouds, 

thickening blindly, 

overhead. 

Everything is still, 

waiting, 

a great thirst 

covers the brittle, 

dry, 

and empty earth, 

even the birds 

have stopped 

singing, 

hidden in the forest,

seemingly empty 

of life,

and silent 

in the hushed quiet 

of a million voices 

closed,

in the futile grasp 

of leaves, 

there’s a pressing, 

a weight 

of heaviness, 

the sky pushing, 

down against 

a vanquished wind.

And the first drops 

are heavy, 

a thousand thousand eyelids 

closing, 

suddenly, 

a great flood 

of summer tears, 

falling, 

releasing,

fragrances thick 

and wonderful, 

until as unbounded 

as they started, 

falling, 

they stop.

A split 

of sky, 

splinters 

of light. 

And rolling 

thunder,

covers the earth 

with yielding gold.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

She walked

She walked 

along the sidewalk

in the early morning

of December,

beautiful

through the dull, 

the dark 

and grey, 

her face 

a picture 

of springtime, 

the promise 

of summer 

who walked

beside her,

never having 

gone away.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Broken Sky

Lightning bolts

the rattle battle 

of thunder storms

spectacular castles, 

and cathedral clouds, 

Another day 

to end.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Blind Immaculate,fresh sneakers, perfectly shaved, slicked back hair, crisply ironed shirt- only the cane and the way he felt his way on board the now familiar 207 bus, made it clear to anyone who was watching.  His partner helped him: as he lightly touched her elbow she guided him up the steps, and to the outside front seat, slightly to the right but behind the driver. She sat next to him, by the window, talking about anything that passed as the bus weaved it’s way through traffic, paused at bus stops and slowly collected passengers from and through the suburbs as they all headed for the station.

Except this morning, he was on his own….

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Cobalt Moon.
I stepped onto the terrace, the still and silent evening wrapped in grey echoing the church bells that chimed in steps and distances across the deepening  shadows thickening into the emptiness, the last breath of Spring, the falling memories and blossom of the passing month of May, And hidden in the hush, the green, the places where the wind left and went away, I saw the footsteps of morning, across the dew drops glistening upon the freshly mown garden lawn, I followed them with my eyes, and saw a figure, standing, wrapped in silver gossamer threads and moonlight pointing to the river, as it emptied in waves and ripples of conversations, reflecting the last running mirrors of daylight, deepening again the falling, the few evening stars once hidden, now turning above the fields and edges, along the last tendrils of day against the blackness, the cobalt moon arising,

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy 

and nod 

in the baking sunlight,

 radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops,

and, 

as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard 

flies 

and swoops

 overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far 

and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places 

and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending 

sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look 

at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like Father Time,

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling 

shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

and the  memories 

and whispers 

of former times,

they, that gather 

and press 

around me, 

shaping, 

waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself 

slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com

Awakening

Awakening

hints 

of morning,

the coming 

of heat 

through 

the thinning 

morning cloak 

of cloud, 

steel 

of sky, 

and springtime 

grey,

above

high upon

the Maple 

sings

the blackbird

lifting

the dawn

of life

and light,

this day.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com