It strikes me that we will never be great Like those grey dots separated by nothingness On a flickering screen brighter towards the center. The world is a tapestry woven For each of us, to forever hold Sacred and watch And watch And watch Watch with these frightened eyes, Frightened of what, we do not yet know. Watch through tears running down our cheeks Arising from the crest of the undertow. This silk drops from a great height, Travelling through time Through dust born by gimlet eyed carriers As the path leads we know not where And the ripples scatter like ducks over a pond Even as we cry and hope and laugh and rage, We raise a gun, and take aim.
I really like the bleakness of cold mornings when people go hunting. I don’t know why. It seems very arborial and antiquated to me – hunter gatherers of the present.
I don’t have a lot to say about this poem, I wrote it just now, so it’s quite clear, I think. The picture is from somewhere in Canada, I wanted a very cold and foggy one of the lake district but I couldn’t find any. It’s a very cinematic shot, it’s so organic and beautiful, and those are geese curving their wings, not ducks.
The more primeval parts of the lake district make me think of Seigfried and the dragon and it’s all very medieval Germany for some reason. Or is it Saxon? I don’t know.