Friday, June 10, 2016

The whispers in the attic.


The whispers in the attic are high above our heads, with the larks and angry ravens, dipped wings from white to black. 

They won't hear you, be calm. They hear you call the storm. They hear you make your statement with a thunderous clout, forlorn. 

But it wasn't. It wasn't heard. And all those whisperings of needles and pins like hundreds of sparrows wings, beating fast and spreading, splaying legs, plucked and shedding. 

Whispers whisper slowly, they sneak over and crawling, sprawling and bawling over rooftops from the attic, spilling out through black nights, crows pecking at  moon light. 

Squawking, singing, tripping, so giddy, to the ears of hidden privy. To tumble the word, the whisper it's golden. 

To spoil it would be rotten, but lest it is forgotten, that whispers are unspoken, 'cept in the rooftops of attics, where they're practically sycophantic. 

And some will seep and ooze, like a deep slumbering snooze, filling the rooftops like thick soup, reminiscent of halitosis, the stench of wrong whispers, twitching cats whiskers, tapping paws upon the skylines, whispers upon whiskers.

Get stolen, be taken by the whispers so mistaken, from the bird twitterings of stench, from wench upon wench.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Bones and blood and corns and mud.








I went back. Because I had to. I had to see. I thought that I would forget all about you. I thought I'd forget all the little details. But they're as vivid as ever. 

Battlegrounds.
Bones and blood and corns and mud. 
Yet I remember the lavish charm you withheld. 

Yet the sight is still tainted. Twisted love. Snapped with fury. Rages and tsunamis. Will you never not hold me?

You're.... just... gone. 
Your cloak and daggers. Your warmth and anger. Your charm and swagger. 
Your whispers, your tickles, your slurps and kisses.

But I'll never forget those autumn days, with the wind and the smoke filled haze, with your long and green tendrils and your longing gaze, with your arms outstretched making me ok.

But...I'll always remember deep in my heart, the claustrophobic panic, giving me a start. I'll always remember that hold on me, the swaying, the playing, the teasing, the strain.

And for that I'm grateful you're feeding the animals, the bristling beasts, the remnants, those poor godawful rodents. 

I'm grateful because you have no hold and next autumn, I tell you I'll be back bigger than bold. I'll be flying circles round you and I'll sway and we'll play and we'll stumble and trip, together we may. And you'll slurp me up all over again, yet I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid and at the end of the day, you're just corn in a cornfield and what else but to say, just you wait, I'll have my day, I'll tower, I'll climb and you'll be afraid, of the day you were left in this lonely place with no one there, just holding your breath, sitting out, waiting for the seasons of change and your stalks all snapped and your bristles splayed, your days all spent, with your bones and blood and corns and mud. 

And I told you, didn't I tell you, I was just about to blossom and fly... because without you I'm as high as a kite.

All photography by Martha Moopette 

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The Cornfield Jungle

I've been really enjoying the change of season. The crisp bitter air. The smell of smoke in the air. The imminent shower of rain. The darker evenings. And walks with my children in nearby cornfields.

There's something wonderful and intriguing about being amongst the scaffolding reeds. Swarms swaying above you. Bristling. Whistling. Whispering. Inviting and mysterious and eerie all in one. Yet playful and romantic and teasing and inviting.

Walking between the stalks, the leaves beating across your body like adoring fans with their arms outstretched. The slither and lick of the long leaves, slurping you up. And yet it could be an attack, a prison, claustrophobic and frightening. Breathless. Trapped. Surrounded. Swaying together. Swaying in harmony with you in their grasp.

Or a playful chase. A tease and a tickle and a promise of a stumbling kiss beyond the hidden depths with a sweetheart.

I love walking through cornfields...

Photography by Martha Moopette 

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Sand Dunes

Softly sifts through your fingers like silk. Caressing your feet, smooth like runny honey and cold with every fresh step. Trickles between your toes and the whispering as it goes.

And the reeds, the sounds, the bristling, the wind... Together it makes for adventures and high spirits. Young again and blown by the breezes. And you're in amongst it. Surrounded. Swaying together, a triumphant camaraderie. Sticking together like Swallows. Shapes forming. Bending, tickling and rattling.

And it's peaceful there. You're free.


Hi there kids!


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