Lockdown, hibernation, false dawns, abandoned plans and lost time. The dark despair of the endless nothing; and yet the glimmer of a tiny light far, far away in the dark distant future will always be visible regardless of how much the black void tries […]
Writing on water is futile Water is stone that no one can carve, save the flaming force of fire, the spirit and the light. A stone dropped into water paints a shadow of a shadow. Writing on water is futile.
We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep. The nightmare of the Brutalists is anything that isn’t made of concrete, has curves and decorations and exists for beauty. Something like this, perhaps. Here is the Cathedral […]
Under the darkling empyrean, the sun retreats from winter’s freezing kiss, leaving just a radiance before the pale moon stares down like the unseeing eye of a slaughtered horse. The Oak tree, now in winter sleep, oblivious to the changing days, will wake again […]
In the quiet squares and gardens of London in winter, the sky is etched by the delicate lacework tracery of plane trees. Here, Georgian terraces stand in stuccoed ranks, pillared porticoes and panelled windows, facades of a more elegant epoch. St Saviour’s waits for […]