The chained ape ...

In the South Chapel, we came across pale figures, resting in their marble - they lay upon their backs, clasping their hands in prayer - their faces were smooth masks - their long bodies had been bleached by time - 

An chained ape crouched by an armoured foot - it gazed up at me with heavy lidded eyes - 

I imagined the ape, still tethered by its fine linked chain, suddenly moving, opening its strange full lipped mouth - 

For one moment I thought I heard the chain rattle, heard some words spoken in a silky voice - 

12.00

March 13 2015

The South Chapel

St Mary's Church

Puddletown

The hands of my watch went backwards ...

Cut into the dark wood of the gallery railing were the initials of bored choristers, long since dust in mossy graves - 

The gallery creaked beneath our feet - below, invisible worshippers sat in high sided box pews, listening to verses from the Second Book of Moses - 

I traced the letters of the centuries old graffiti with my finger tips - bones clicked against the wood - pen knives carved letters and geometric shapes - the hands of the watch my dad gave me started going backwards - 

11.30

March 13 2015

St Mary's Church

Puddletoen

Dorset

One in the morning in Fawcett Road, foxes and strangeness ....

Walking back from Maggie and Ed's, the Southsea streets were empty save for foxes - we watched one swagger past us, near the Jewish Cemetery - 

Through the barbed wire of the cemetery, the gravestones were like teeth - 

Earlier, we'd  seen a shop with a sign saying His Glory Food Store - 

We were walking in a strange light, as though our senses were disordered - 

01.30

March 12 2015

Fawcett Road 

Southsea 

The Mask of Anarchy in The Rifle Club ...

I'm sitting in the Gun Room of the Rifle Club, sipping Old Speckled Hen, watching a band - the band is called The Polite Mechanicals - 

This song has a darkness about it says Richard - 

Violins keen - 

I'm sitting next to Sue Castillon, who's standing for Portsmouth South - 

Later Richard may read some stanzas from The Mask of Anarchy - 

We arrived still whirring with Turkish coffees - 

Maggie is sitting near to the stage, listening intently to the song, slim and quivering with words - 

Writing poems, I thought, is like snaring angels - 

20.45

March 11 2015

The Rifle Club, Gun Room

Portsmouth

Early one March evening ...

Above the roof tops there was a starless blue black sky - it was early evening - lamp posts cast their light upon the dark river - the tide was on the ebb - 

Downstream, the river flowed through serpentine channels, past silent islands to meet the sea - the wind stirred reed beds - deer moved like nervous ghosts above Shipstall Point - 

A yacht was moored to the Town Quay - the tower of Lady Saint Mary carried prayers to heaven - 

Each house on Saint John's Hill cherished a tender secret - soft voiced sea birds flew above the roof tops of the gentle town - 

18.00

March 9 2015

The Town Quay

Wareham

Dorset 

Durlston Country Park, crocus flowers, a roll of Namibian dollars ...

I gazed down at the sea between dark trees - bare branches were like thin bones - fallen leaves half covered serpentine roots - kelp stirred below the waves - rocks rose from the sea bed to snare mariners - 

I walked through the park towards Durlston Castle - a salty wind blew through the undergrowth - at the base of one leafless beech tree I saw a cluster of crocus flowers, each flower perfect, brimming with artless joy - ancient moss cloaked a dry stone wall - 

Inside the castle, a shapely barista handed me a cappuccino - I gazed for long moments at an exhibition of found objects, harvested from the South West Coastal Path - shells, pebbles, a withered leaf, three rolls of Namibian dollars - 

12.00

7 February 2015

Durlston 

Isle of Purbeck

Mowing ...

Late this afternoon, I mowed the lawn - 

I heaved the mower out of its lair - the shed was a secret world - two bikes had become rusting cobwebbed creatures - once I'd found three mummified fledglings, like delicate offerings, in a mossy flower pot - spiders built sinister webs under shelves of paint tins -

As I mowed the lawn, I smelt the sweet grass - I paused for a while by the holly tree, each glossy wicked leaf reflecting the March sunlight - 

I mowed long grass under the apple tree - moles dug their winding corridors beneath its roots - 

I piled up the grass cuttings like a fragrant gift - 

The sun was low in the sky by the time I'd finished mowing - beautiful light and shadows danced over the cut grass - 

18.00

February 8 2015

The lawn

The Old School House

East Stoke

Isle of Purbeck