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 spring’s embrace with new green clothes to catch the light and draw the water from the earth.

A Winter’s Tale

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 those that pray, spire piercing heavens’ eye. On a winter day in cold grey light, London is a beautiful sight…if you know where to look.


Out here on the remote eastern edge of England, two thousand years ago the Romans built a fort to defend the entrance to the river Blackwater. When they left, the fort fell into ruins. In 654 St Cedd built a church on the ruined walls of the Roman fort, St Peter-on-the Wall. This is the last part of that Saxon Church still standing and it is still in use, the door is never locked and people still come. Meanwhile, the setting sun pours out its nuclear fusion energy towards the decommissioned Bradwell nuclear power station behind me. Windmills spin out energy torn from the wind and the turbulent North Sea pounds against the sea wall. This is a powerful place in many ways, a fusion of power, spirits and all that has gone before.

On The Beach, Alone

Between the sea and under stars, storm clouds heavy overhead, distant thunder echoes roll, heaving waves beyond the shore, sand reflecting sun’s last light, on the beach alone tonight, no ships sail by, no birds will fly, alone below the gloaming sky, the distant figure travels by.

Illumination 2

Imagine that what you see has never been seen before, imagine that everything is a memory of what began before you looked. Imagine that what you see began as something invisible. Here is a window, it lets in the invisible so we can see the light. I have seen the light.

Silent Music For The Eyes

The silence of late afternoon is music to the eyes, no bustling crowds or barking dogs just the languid song of birds and bees. From somewhere over rolling hills the silvery chime of a distant bell marks the hour and passing time. Before us lies the quiet path toward a green and pleasant land.

Legends of the Land

The Ancient Stones stand silently in quiet places and fields of green, they keep their stories hidden underground, while the rain falls quietly under heavy leaden skies. Across the land a tower stands, its history gone before. The ghosts of men from deep below the shaft walk the land around the Dolmen. The myths unfold as the rain whispers its secrets onto a small umbrella.

To Empyrean

Revelation Rising

The rising of Beatrice towards the light, enveloped by its veil of such radiance within which nothing could be seen. Towards the Paradise unknown, the celestial rose of light so pure, a vision brighter than the stars, defeating eyes, denying sight, to Empyrean she rises, to Paradise.

Dark Wings

Above the streets of London the dark wings come home to roost. The freedom to fly is not ours, we are earthbound and heavy, so many eyes cast down in despair. Look up, look up, look above you, watch the sky and look out for hope, as dark as the day seems there is always light.

Nostalghia -зеркало воспоминаний

Mirror of Memories reflecting old light from some forgotten place. Evanescent time.

There was a storm outside. Rain lashed the window, wind tormented the writhing sea, the electrified sky was on fire. Here – in this forgotten room – the walls absorbed memories, the camera captured light, but time left and closed the door.