Writing
The Winter, A Walker Passes
It is deep winter night in the northern hemisphere. The long enduring dark winter night of the year’s true turning. Neither stars nor moon in the sky, but pale, swirling wind borne clouds and a familiar chill, a bone deep…
Winter’s Calling
Late November, the dark peak. Winter is home again on these high moors, mewling in with chill-lash days of sleet and gale. With fellhard testing days of hail obscured horizons and roaring, bed broaching brooks.
The Alder Pool.
The voice of a cuckoo Dropped to the lake Where it lay floating …
First Summit
What’s the first mountain I climbed? That depends. What do you mean by climb, mountain and first? But that’s a philosophical path I don’t choose to tread here; for there lay sleeping Jabberwocks (in this gentle memoir they will remain…
Petrichor
Petrichor; derived from Greek petra, “stone” & īchōr, “divine fluid”: that uniquely fresh, rich aroma of rain falling upon parched earth after days then weeks of hot dry weather. Early summer, the driest on our modern record. The birchwood copse,…
To a possible reader…
just a spacer A note to a possible reader. On prose, specifically mine, often the purple variety. I make no apology, for none is needed. I love words. I cherish them. I love their variety. I love that old words…