the hills have the long watch…

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(please read this aloud and let the words take you wherever they may…)

Here I sit, uncold, wrapped in the jumps

That my brain takes from Here, to There, from Now to Then.

When I settle, deeply, warmly into Then

Outside, the russet-tinged clouds scud and scurry

Outside, the rusted tin roof screeches, echoing the owl of last light.

The limbs of the tree dance,

wind pushed togetherly, sway mightily.

We go to the line of the roof,

gable eyes winking, flashing and winking.

It nods to the left, my right, shows me the old house.

The wall of gathered river-cobbles rounded by

Concussion, collision, crafted erosion.

Here they stand, where they were laid down, in lines of curved straightness.

Trapping a horsehair from centuries long gone.

The cobble’s an egg-shell containing a fossil.

River sand limestone, grit, hair and water.

They stack up in courses, lines and right angles.

Long stone for the door jam, windows and corbels.

Put there by Old John, Jack, Will or long-Henry.

My gaze leaps the old house, springs over tin barn

Over to the hedgerow that marches the old road

Laid down by Romans, or even before them.

Trodden on by peddlers, tin-men and farm-hands

Weary and wary and stepping through puddles

Hands cupping treasures, or casting out crumbles

The sky gaze over but never the same one.

The hills have the long watch

They’ve witnessed

The marriage, the murder, the chase and the capture

The lost and the found and the sly interloper

The birth of a baby, the death of a lover

The shriek of a coachwheel, the cry of a robber

The creak of collision, the crack of a leg-bone

The stealing of purses, hearts, souls and virtue .

This road lines past the high hills, the place where my heart lies

Heather, furze, whimberry, rowan and hawthorn

Edge curved paths hug the whitestone cliff

Past the long barrow, the holes of the dry wall a window

The home of the adder, sneck yates, the droveway.

A long stone, a walkway, a ‘wonder-where-that-goes?’

A lost hour, a found way, a new way to Haxby

A once hidden valley, a discarded horseshoe

A long line of engines, toiling and trundling.

I find myself lost and lose myself found

I trudge and upwalk, steps into bounds

The rise is a hill, the steepest of mounds

I slip, only once, my blood stains the ground.

Then I’m free of the climb, up, look once around,

free now of rhyme, now I’m on top of the hill

The top of the hill, here it’s cold and I spy

A bottle, long buried, the neck winks a glimmer.

A picnic, the twenties, flannel for him,

Wool skirt for her, a blanket for both.

Some brown ale, a salt egg, a shared patch of sky.

His interlaced fingers cradle his head

As the sky races on, clouds huddled, rush by

She talks of the future, the summer they’ll wed.

He thinks of the sky, the day it turned red.

Not here, but in Ypres

Green Howards go forward,

Onward to chaos

The mud turns to the colour

Of shepherds warning

A lobster a boiling

A storm

Of shouting, screams, shells falling then

-John, what do you think? What shall we do then…?

He blinks, shakes his head,

begs his leave (for now lads)

Of Johnson and Wilson and Smith, Lees and Thomas.

He knows where they are (forever they’ll be lads)

Forever Green Howards, never now tailor

Or farmer, or blacksmith, tanner or turner.

John turns to his Mary, sweet sun on his meadow.

She knows, will not mention,

uses love to heal terror.

They swig from the bottle, then bury it

Under a slip of a Rowan, the berries her children.

The red of a warning, food for the skylark

The finch and the redwing.

Hiding a bottle until now, when I find it.

That was my brief pause, where John had his picnic.

Onward, well downwards

The path, steep, heel ruts for toe-holds,

A curlew overflies and answers another

I dip below wind, warm now and cautious.

It’s steeply slippy, hands grasp the bracken.

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The hills have the long watch, the furze, deeply trodden

A march stolen, a hidden down treasure,

A stop, stump-trip shinned knee.

The wait of a parent, the crunch of the gravel,

the kiss of the key on the lock, unsteady.

The stars freckle the night and wink.

The hills know, but will never tell

of the birth and death of those flickery candles.

The dance of the lights, the death of the night

The courtship of the dawn and the gloom.

They have felt the weight of clawed paws

The prance of hares leaping in the long grass

as they pause at the shock of the eclipsing moon.

Here ends the rainbow, here, here and here.

There goes Auld Tom, driving the herd, switch flicking

Feet stretching from lowlands to Durham, finally York.

Here stands James Douglas, his army

of Scots and their taking of Byland.

Here knelt a king, cowed by the Bruce.

The shadow the abbey, whole just for now

Bore witness to the rout.

They marched on the old road, laid by the first feet

Which laid the barrow,

Opened the lime of the hill to bury a king.

The hills embraced him, enfolded his cairn in moss and turf.

Then they waited, until he became part of the earth,

Returned to his home,

Returned to the long watch.

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The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Schools. Or “Of Course It’s Bloody Privatisation”

This week, Nicky “I’m not Michael Gove, Honest” Morgan and her chum George “I’m not Satan, Honest” Osborne, announced that every school in England would be force…

Source: The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Schools. Or “Of Course It’s Bloody Privatisation”

where the gravity’s silent…

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Original pencil, type & ink drawing, available in my Etsy shop: UnderAVintageSky

A flicker, sensed more than seen.

 

No sound, no storm she foretells today.

White night owl, moon-ray above the hedge

Circles, tail chased by the night,

Lofts, dodging the evening,

12885708_1277265058957115_6388395575950480432_o.jpgHangs, catching the scent.

Or is it the scurry of a heart beating fast?

The floating feather of light,

blots out the night.

In this indigo woven blanket of eventide

The weary day feeders hunker down and doze

Above she glides, feathers fanning the air

Above she gazes, eyes examining the ground.

Down!

Down!

Down she dives, an explosion of silence

A flurry of hastily expelled air.

Up!

Up!

Up she leaps, now done with violence

Aloft in the night sky, an absence

A white hole, where the gravity’s silent

White night owl, a light in the darkness.

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hare she leaps…

12768130_1261241263892828_526338452705703039_o.jpgIn the night

In the night we leap, lope and love

In the creaky, misty, care-worn spouse of the day we lay

Lay low and listen, quivering lines

seeking the man’s tread, the whisper of an owl

brock wander, grey shadow sideways bound

there’s a silence hanging heavy, dew not yet formed

rasp of grooming kitten fur, vixen starts and growls

hare she leaps,

hare she stands

hare she listens

In the morn

in the morn we hide, heal and home

In the dewy, promising night’s lovers entrance

we scratch a form and lie and rest.

Brock he sleeps also, vixen she dreams of the open coop

an engine coughs to life and she starts, tasting the oil as it

drifts down the lane to where she coils the legs that spring

hare she wakes

hare she speeds

hare she races

In the spring,

In the spring, we bound, bond and box!

In Eostre’s waking dawn, mother of the harvest

We box, hare she stands, hare he stands

and we box

Until the day she says,

“leveret come to me, come to my form and be

a hare, the spirit of the fields

leveret she comes

leveret she comes

In the night…

For the mothers…

Here are a selection of my hand made Mother’s Day cards available in my Etsy shop

https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/UnderAVintageSky

They cost £3 each including UK postage. Don’t be caught out this year, Mother’s Day is really early- in fact, it’s only a few weeks away, on the 6th of March.

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On a nightingale floor…

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Two people sitting on a nightingale floor.

One is a sinner, the other’s a whore.

Ten candles flicker, flames kissing the wall

Frozen in quiet, dark shadows dancing

one second still and the very next leaping.

in silvered quiet,

tarnished by fear, hate and crescents of wildness .

Polished by black velvet words

Silently spoken

Broken she shudders and judders

retelling the violence

through this, she’s healing

whilst sitting in silence.

Her face tells the story of

years of lost childhood

decades of darkness

splintered nights of full blackouts

where the memory is vanished

furled up in corners

foxed, stained and dog-eared

they shy from the light

the sound of kind voices and

unbidden caring.

Two people sitting on a nightingale floor.

Which one’s the sinner? Which is the whore?

Lines, bruises, tears, scars keeping score.

There a brief sound, the shadows stand silent

Another lonely Londoner, soul torn in quarters

Of moth-eaten cheesecloth, stained by salt tearfall.

Her mouth purses, fights with the silence

It opens, then pauses, lips forming vowels

Her cheeks grimace, forming those valleys

Where rivers run downward,

the spring source her eyelids.

Her shoulders pause, hitch, dip, rise

and then let go.

Is it the floor’s song?

A sigh of intrusion, or a cry from her darkness?

The ghosts, linger and circle and

test, try her patience.

They tease her and taunt her and

deride all her courage.

They hide in the not-light, that space between shadows

The gap between words

The pause before promise

the stop before first step.

She stands, covers mirror,

and kicks out the candles.

And strides out a-singing.

Laughing at shadows.

She’s not what she was, she’s now the lightness of

purpose, sweet self worth and courage.

She faced up the shadows,

And looked in the mirror,

disposed of her future,

the one they did tell her

was all she could hope for.

And laid down her past hurts

with a soft kiss of parting

and a promise to remember

and revisit the painhouse

to retain the power to

tell them to quiet

And let her regain life.

The floor is now silent as she leaves for

whatever may follow…

She is quickly…

dance 3

Here pulls a pulse, without and within you

harder than words and

softer than shadow in a warm, sun-day meadow.

There!

She stands, clothed in a smile

poised to unfurl like the newly made fern

Which springs with the speed

that a smile reaches heart

or jump-jewelweed’s gift to the world.

Soft as the touch of a warm summer night

Yet strong like the grip of cub’s mother jaws.

there is no north, south, east, neither west.

Nor have we up or down, day, night,. month or year.

There is a moment, stretched out in steps,

Pauses and pulses and gaps between notes.

Forwards and sidewards and on to tiptoes

Half seconds of gossamer iron

with thistledown drifting

And suddenly but

Slowly

she is quickly

she is pause

Then she is

The sum of everything

the universe around her

the music within her

She is, in this moment

All that does matter

circle, half circle,

sideward and forward

spinning and speaking

words without meaning

feel without feelings

All that does matter

Is she is and I am

Lost in a movement.

dance 2

Above lies an attempt to understand the way dancing makes me feel; or the way that dancing is experienced by me.

Everything stays, but lingers on the outside, like the encouraging circle of a birthday jam. So I may have a bill to pay, a friend to worry about, toxicity from elsewhere. These don’t vanish, but they step back, like a minor role in a play, lines spoken, lingering in the background, quietly susurrating, a part still to play in the seasoning of the drama.

Remains an understanding that, the circle serves to sweeten the dance in the middle.

Remains the knowledge that sweet would not be sweet if sour did not exist.

Remains the realisation that the moment of joy relies on normality to serve as a marker.

It’s taken me a long time to find my still point, this silly, funny, infuriatingly difficult dance that is lindy hop. I am glad that I found it, found the warm and smiling circles, throughout the country, that happily part ranks and embrace me, wherever or whenever I wander into a club or a dance hall. We need no words, just the sprung steel anticipatory connection. The journey changes with each and every dance, even if the song was the same one played on repeat.

How do I dance? Sometimes I mess it up, sometimes the pulse eludes me, sometimes it’s nerves when I dance with someone who I’m a bit in awe of. But it’s all worth it, and the dance muscle strengthens with each dance, each missed step, each acknowledged ‘reset’.

Now, I’ll not worry too much about what I’m going to do, it usually seems to happen. Every now and then my brain will go, “ooh! remember you know how to do ‘kick the dog’!”

And I’ll do that move, whilst accepting that another move will shuffle off the rolodex of my dance memory, for a short time.

What has it taught me? Well, it’s helped me to realise that, despite being introverted by nature, I can still jump around a public place and make mistakes; that I can blend into the background when I want; that I can forget, forget, forget, just for the phrase, the 32 beats of musical perfection. I can make new friends, wherever I go, regardless of age, sex, class, race, colour or creed. It levels me.

And the people, the amazing people. Thank you, each and every one of you, including the ones I’ve not met yet. dance

In addition to writing and thinking and discussing it, I also try to make a modest living creating things.

There are a few different mediums which I work in. Here are a few glass etched images that I have created recently. I work to order and I accept commissions too.

As you can see,  I have included two etchings of people’s loved ones, which were based on photographs which were sent to me. These are ones which I am proud of.

Please contact me here at kieron@underavintagesky.com if you wish to discuss a commission.

Through a cloud…

moor
Stones or people?

 

Into the unknown, high through a cloud we trod

Haze hidden tarn, a secret from one, lost in the fog

Those words, unbidden, unplanned, dear and deep

Taking a path, converging, winding, slippery steep

To the well, to the well where they gathered

Mossed up history, stones old wind blasted statues

Deep carved words, wounds in the stone.

The well, she sings, she’s sung here forever.

Into the unknown, deep in our minds we delve

Hurt hidden turns, a secret from one, lost love solved

Those words, unbidden, unplanned, dear and deep

Talking the path, conversing, listening, pain to sleep.

To the stones, to the stones where they gathered

Propped up mystery, old stones gathered in pairs

Six leaning pairs, deep in the earth.

The stones, they stand, they’ve stood here forever.

Out into the known, back to the world we go

Cloud free, no secrets at all, jump beck’s flow

That view, unbidden, unplanned, clear and crisp

Taking the path, concluding, retracing our steps.

When we walk, I never know where we will go. One of us at least, knows the place, the geography, the way the path curves to the right; the name of the little field, or the old stone. But that’s not why we walk, where we go is important but it’s the stage upon which we extemporise, speak true and open. We go to get lost in the tangles of the tangles of the tangles. One by one, instinct seems to pick a thread and, gently, carefully, with love, respect and understanding, tease it free from the others.

I won’t share the things that we discuss, but it mixes with tales of the past, the origins of words, songs, places, and people to become a cleansing, somehow a theme which we follow to a natural conclusion. We manage to talk. We listen.

And what does this tell me? Respect, trust and kinship, this comes unbidden. It tells me that, within, we instinctively know what we want to, what we need to exorcise. And, as the body is distracted by the joy of exercise, the head distracted by the beauty of the open countryside; then, the heart can weave, gently, the worries and the concerns and find a resolution in the rise and fall of the feet, the ups and downs of the conversational journey. Listening is the way to have a conversation. And, like a cloud lifting, once the thread has been unravelled, it’s time to go home and ground again.

And I know it’s the old stones, the paths trodden for centuries, the heart-piercing beauty of the heather, moss, slippy stone, the peat stained becks, that make the conversation naturally flow and rise. There places hold wisdom, they have been special for centuries. Countless feet have trodden and created the paths. Hands have carved and lifted the stones, lips drank the water. Sun warmed backs and frost-bitten feet. Love found, lost and regained. Lives too. Old ways lost and new ways found.

All under the sky. All on the moors. The beauty, bleak and brutal. This is when I find my voice. This is when my soul finds an answer. This is where I go to be renewed.

That’s why I carved a hare. The symbol of rebirth.

hare

She is fierce…

Where do we go in search of peace and solitude? Where do we go to relax and connect? Where do we go to find answers to the questions we weren’t even sure needed asking?

haxby.jpg
Hawnby Hill, North Yorkshire

 

It depends who you are I suppose. Some find solace in noise and bustle. Some find solace in the molecular bonding of a stadium full of like minds.

Some sweat in a gym. Some run, walk, dance, meditate. Some do all of those things. Some medicate.

Some find, through choice,or lack of choice solace in the unfathomable depth of the mind.

I am one of those who heads into the countryside. I know that the meditative step step crunch crunch squelch squelch will free my mind and help me to balance and work my mind in a way that allows me to find peace. I might not find answers to everything. Not all problems can be solved immediately. But, even with those ones, I am able to find perspective and an acceptance of the situation.

Lets say I have a certain problem which is preying on my mind. It’s easy, so easy to think and keep on thinking and get lost in the worry.

The moors save me from this, every time, they save me.

The meditative walking helps a huge amount. And peril. Peril helps me a great deal.

I remember having a walk with a friend last year, and we got to talking about how every walk we had together always ended up with a certain amount of peril. Genuine peril.

Enough to make me think, even for just a second, “oh, this might be painful or, possibly, terminal.” (usually in a more sweary way, if I’m being completely honest).

So in those situations, two things happen. Firstly, I totally forget about the bill or stressful situation. Completely.

Secondly, my mind connects totally to my body and lives in the moment. It’s Zen I guess. I become hyper-aware. Switched on and full of purpose.

And afterwards, well, my mind looks at me, and waits, like a patient parent, waiting for me to come to the realisation all by myself. My problems, while they may, on occasion be very difficult and hard; they aren’t as bad as others have it, nor will worrying about them solve them.

Take away the power that unkind and toxic people have. They won’t occupy my mind, except on a very fleeting basis. Also, and this is vital. Forgive them, even if it is hard. In fact, especially if it is hard.

After that, I take a pretty photograph and enjoy that hot cup of tea from the flask and sit and drink in the sheer beauty of the world.

Now, of late, the North has been given a stark reminder. Peril and disruption, as well as a reminder that, yes, She has teeth. We don’t own the world. We are tolerated but can be evicted at the snap of a finger.

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Glenridding, Lake District

 

We have been reminded, starkly, terrifyingly, viscerally for many, that we have stewardship of our world. No more.

The green valleys. How did they get there? They were carved by water, pounded by rock, boulders and storm-torn trees. The land is scarred by the power of water. The world is shaped by water.

And the world, our Mother Nature, is taking it back. We have failed in our stewardship and we are being reminded about this.

So what can we do? Plant trees, conserve energy, recycle, reduce CO2 emissions, dredge our rivers & stop spending money on exploding orphan-makers.

We are on our final warning.  What are you going to do? If we don’t do something soon, the decision will be out of our hands…

glen
The water reclaiming a tree.