Memories ~ 2023

2024, 2023, 2022

A half moon cut not by the earth but by the clouds.

The sun erases itself, bleaching the LCD.

Coloured lights soak into the condensation and stain the glass.

Saltwater, shallow and swirled round the chair leg, shuffles light in the kitchen.

The sheets blow in the wind but the air is too wet.

Over the water to the beach, myriad eyes.

In the dark, the hedgehog through the bush sounds like a harp.

One car every twenty minutes.

The storm breaks while the car rolls, extinguishing the fire in the horizon.

The clouds, pregnant with shadow.

It moves like an infernal ship, cracking the ground with shadow.

What is that, outside the window?

Dark red light crawls through the texture of the wall.

Rain sticks to the window, accumulating strange colour in the larger growths.

The mist leaks up from the ground.

A twig cracks to the right a fox drowns in shadow to the left.

Shades of grey break the shadow, you cannot tell if you're eyes see.

The chaos momentarily resolves to a chord.

The noise is all signal.

One drop too many and the roof comes down.

The wind cuts the water.

Lifted, for a moment, off the ground.

A cracked tooth ripped out; the nerves still attatched.

The hand clenches the moss, upturned in the river.

All converges in blood.

A waltz in the hollow before the storm clouds sing.

The flare dies with crimson rain swallowed.

The river rusts.

The telephone pole is now on the other side of the road, you think.

The shadows are cooler but you can't see the difference in the night.

Up the jetty, the giant's steps, close layered brick, roof to floor.

A thick fog rolls in.

No cars as you walk through the snow.

The signs of apocalpyse only became clear in retrospect, the signs of decline were unavoidable.

The Story of Yanagawa's Canals, 1987 - Isao Takahata

Hard frost, no snow.

The spectrum collapsed; variation is found in touch.

The red sun is only a reflection from the traffic light but the desert dust is real.

Up in the sky.

A half step then a vault over the gate where the trail fades into the colour.

The trees fall back and the bread is covered by footsteps as the glass door closes.

Bare feet cling to the rock, cradled past the lapping sea.

Light comes through the shroud, bugs do not.

Chungking Express, 1994 - Wong Kar-Wai

The Nightingale, 2018 - Jennifer Kent

The grass a green sea; light caught in the processional bows.

Bare branches grip the crescent moon.

A ghost.

Sun like a shatttered mirror in the wet pavement.

The wave breaks the shapes.

The wolf howls, oscillated by heavy breaths.

Footsteps, footsteps, footsteps.

The Nightingale, 2018 - Jennifer Kent

Gregory's Girl, 1980 - Bill Forsyth

The grey clouds produce a sun-bleached perpetual night which, four floors down for the the forth day in a row, is strangely comforting.

A groove, an orchestra!

The loudest sound after the storm but before the birds; the smell.

Awake a part of the roots.

The water laps at the waning moon.

Towels on the windowsill but, you think, the rainy season is coming to an end.

A feeling so loud it can only be described in the simplest terms again and again.

So much grey the gesture becomes the base.

A hum in your chest.

A Cook's Tour, 2002 - s01e12

Under the verandah, where the fruit should be, a badger away from the rain.

Your hand scorches on the bark.

The line is cast catching the clouds to the sea.

The greyhound bolts across the sand like the thief from a job gone wrong.

The lamp sparks on the offbeat.

And the harp sings without the wind.

It clings to the horizon, amber hands dissolving in progressive scan.

Blue begets blue.

Bathe in the borrowed light of the moon.

The thread cuts the clouds, only as long as the tilt of its reflection in any given second.

Blackberries fill the lime kiln, just as sweet but half as tart.

The tea in the saucer cools quickly.

It hangs suspended, still, as a premise built for earthquakes, sparks shattered in its veins.

You stumble across the back. The waking of the dreamer will not be the biggest event of your life or of many but the first breath will come with a crackle.

The rain soaks through, you feel it on your stomach.

The night comes in like treacle.

You are led by the the heavenly bodies. A map laid over another; there is no intention in the scales.

There's a dead bird in the driveway.

A moment of recognition but all in all it is still wild.

The roof leaks.

Sugared rain off the mangoes.

A choir of ghosts; those who never sang try their hand at slide guitar.

Onibaba, 1964 - Kaneto Shindô

The rabbit trips but is soon back on it's feet, a little grass caught in his fur.

A crack in the floor, a crack in the Earth; a wound drowned by breached bank, a wound rubbed with gritted sand.

The stars shine brightly.

Gregory's Girl, 1980 - Bill Forsyth

Branches cast shadows skimming the sky, the sun hangs low.

The mirror in pieces shimmers, definition is sanctioned.

She sleeps amongst the clouds, stitching the apricot of the evening; still shadowed tissue beneath the eyes.

Followed back, it appears a reflection without source.

Please Baby Please, 2022 / '23 UK - Amanda Kramer

All becomes its own blue.

The shadows lighten into rain.

Your feet tangle up in the green of the chalk stream.

The grass in unremarkable.

The fox feeds at the intersection of a wall and the pavement. She was not meant to feel hunger beyond her stomach.

Still the rise and fall but the days don't seem to end anymore.

Every second is unclean.

It's raining today. - Scott Walker

The hand shatters on the pavement, last seen in full at first breath by the stone cutter, last of his trade on this side of the vein and everything in-between, a hundred floors up supported on a cradle of glass and steel, a suspended fracture of an anointed plain.

They speak an alphabet only of gesture.

The sun appears, meek like a lighter in the wind.

The shell is fuller than the structure.

You awake and feel like you were never asleep.