Narratives...

It stands at a cross roads; easier to call up the devil that way. It is doled out in measurements, encased in glass. Fairy Tales and red ribbon. Life covered in moss. It’s between the lines, decadent dark and sun-shiny days… It is a poet and a scholar and a banshee wailing against the wind. It is dark green and deep, sky blue and pale, blood red and silky. It smells of apples and salt air, earth and iron. It is both scientist and sidhe. It is north wind, sea change and all between here and there… It is barefoot and wandering. It walks back roads and makes its way through city streets; stopping as every moment of the truth wanders past. It is maps made of sand, blood and moss. And when night stirs at sea and the fire brings a crowd in, you’ll find it spoken out loud. You know it already and you’ll hear it again; another time, another place. It has been playing that guitar and beating that drum… you’ve danced to it before and you’ll dance again. You drink it in with your tea and breathe it out with a sigh… It changes on the tides yet it is constant like the northern star, where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar… It is dawn on a still city street, the shore at twilight... It flies home with the swallows yet it never left. It is grey-green rain and sunlight on the sills. It flits between the clock hands, and though it enters unnoticed you’ll feel it when it leaves ... It’s everything you have always feared and all that you’ll ever love. It is poetry and politics and all the life in between, it is the root of the root of the bud of the bud of a tree called life; Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head… It is fragile and resilient, born on that dark and stormy night, once upon a time, and the time before that, a century after, last week, tomorrow, yesterday and today…

I've been meaning to post this for quite some time; it is an ever evolving collection of quotes (Joni Mitchell, Austin Clarke and E.E Cummings amongst others) and definitions of narratives.

Today it is still heart-breakingly cold and yet the sunlight has turned golden. I have been scribbling in blue by the heat of the fire and wondering about Queens, boys who wander and falling snow... Today I love battered decks of cards, and smoky coffee with apples and cheese, I love crisp sheets and the blue of early mornings, and as always I love patience and loathe anger. Today the woman I am has been baking again; tall and creamy cakes after midnight, she has been brewing tea and weaving tales, she longs for the heat of summer and the smell of honeysuckle and rain but she'll settle for these frosts a little while longer...