me and my notebook. image by katte proberto
Rooting through my old notebooks today in preparation for moving to London, and I stumbled across these two little tales. They’re not quite stories, not quite poems – but something in the hinterland between. It seems I was thinking about death! Or endings, or something like that. Anyway I think they’re quite interesting, so I thought I’d post them…
the lost village of (h)ours
we came to the lost village of hours, with nothing more than
a bison’s whistle, a stopwatch, and the book of laughter and forgetting.
we knew our bodies were not our ours, and we looked down on them as though we were dead.
you tried to touch the shifting worlds as they passed, but i couldn’t move.
i had a belly full of knives, by the end, in the lost village of hours.
the moors (‘which seem carved out of weather, ghosts and distant music’ said the great angus balbernie)
i went to the moors to find out what my bones hold.
i had been looking for grace for a long time,
but grace isn’t really something you can grab hold of,
i began to understand – and the moors are a lonely place.
i went home windswept, understanding a little bit more
but still unsure about my bones.
absence makes the heart grow fonder
and the truth of death is a peculiar thing.