Only on these days. Sky like a lowering lid. A step out the door and the immediate, physical need to step right back in again. But you can’t. These things are not permitted. You must engage, brother. So it’s only on these days, though maybe they’re happening all the time. What are those things you […] Read More →
I’ve always liked edgelands. The scrub of empty space where a factory used to be. A murky dawn canal, brambles lilting in the pass of ghost barges. An abandoned quarry in late winter, just a mysterious tower, every window broken, watery sun. Or an abandoned crazy golf course, this being a setting for ‘A Private Haunting’ and now the final cover image. […] Read More →
On the periphery the perspectives are more pronounced. Looking in means introspection of a fundamental kind- five drams and Glen Campbell on an ancient jukebox. Looking out means to dream of elsewhere, to exist in a place before you get there. Growing up I grew tired of looking in. I wanted Europe and beyond. I’m […] Read More →
Blue bruised morning. Driving sleet, stun of orange above the Wytham Woods skyline. The road has become a single track. Traffic vanished. Ghost Poet on the CD and so many others in my head. Those haunted lines, picking me out again. Swing the wheel. Career across these sodden fields and keep on going. So many winters. […] Read More →
Somewhere on the west coast of Scotland. Late-December a few years back after an aborted hike. Dropping down in the car towards a loch and there in a swift-closing distance a plane, forty feet above the churning grey water. A Tornado fighter-bomber. The RAF, war gaming in the twisting glens, a strange stand-in for the epic flatness […] Read More →
Rainin. Not even a streak aw white or flash aw blue, just flat grey sky, mist risin up through the gorge to meet it. Always with the rain in this place. Ever the grey. Though havin never been here how would ah know? It’s Creepy Dan’s fault. Again the claim that his mother flung herself […] Read More →
5 hours from Oban on a Calmac ferry that reminds me of a sports centre c. 1987. But there’s still a romance about ferries. I love them. Until I’m doing the Buster Keaton stagger with my lunch in my throat. A small fortune could have bought us plane tickets. There’s romance in the turbo-prop too; […] Read More →