Necropolis

At dawn and dusk the sun and moon appear. Garish and defined against the indistinct surroundings, gleaming like eyes in a flawless complexion. We walk alone, unaccounted for. We make mistakes in life, in death. And then suddenly, what was once on either side is now side by side. Like crosses on the skyline, a memorial to ourselves, or a rising tower, a monument; standing alone amongst yesterday’s tears, rising out of a forbidden mist to claim its crown of sunlight. Towering above the meagre bushes below, which bury their faces in shame. By night it glows with warmth. By dawn it stands as king; an imaginary, dreamlike freedom. And how small we seem. So petty and insignificant. The divisions between us melt as the mist falls away around our feet, as though it had been cast from heaven; as we, someday, shall be.

And then it bows its head, becoming once more submerged by mist as another sinner falls from God – and is forgotten. Behind silken veils of translucent radiance and hidden beauty, it seems to near, so part of our world and yet is inaccessible, forever out of reach.

We cannot live by dreams alone, but exist with our hopes in sight, overshadowing our days, watching our every move. Then the surrounding hills pierce the veil of mist, and the monument’s magnificence is rendered insignificant – till dawn.

And we are left to retrace the steps until we can find somewhere from which we may begin again.

There is a sort ot timelessness ...

A place exists where granite lives side by side with granite, like the world’s first birth. Granite upon granite, rising skyward, stretching as far as the eye can see. Uneven, placed carelessly, rock upon rock, overhanging in some places, cavernous in others, parts of each stone chipped and dented with ruts like God-created steps. Some blackened by salt water or bleached by the unforgiving sun, speckled with yellow lichen.

And beneath, a foaming swirling mass of froth and bubble. A pure, virginal white – untouched by man. Throwing itself, forcefully and sacrificially against the eternal granite, dissolving into a million salty tears as despair sets in. Still it beats the stones, washing round the base of the eruption, ceaselessly, relentlessly, one wave washing against another, into another and smothering the fists and fingers of the universe, the form of which would still be recognisable to Eve in her first glance across the world. Yet still it torments, turning and returning, never weary, never battered. And the rock never moves, no stone ever tumbles. The sea retreats, beaten, and advances for attach again. It cannot make a dent upon the granite, never carve the whisper of an impression ….

And in writing it the moment is lost, the memory destroyed.

On Waking

The world looks strange by morning light,

An unclaimed heaven within our grasp
Which talks to us by day and night
But will, like lives and loves, not last.

And all the time it’s still the same

The days tick by without a whisper.
In years to come who will be blame
For never forcing us to listen.

Through all the changing days and years

In skies that torment, rage and weep,
May we save our dreams and tears
Until the moment we shall sleep