End of the World Awakening in these apolcalyptic times, I find three kingfishers playing in the spring sun outside my window. A heron lollops historically across the sky and scats ceremonially into the shifting river. A cormorant pops up to check we are all still here and returns to the depths Two pied wagtails make a fuss about who gets to sit where whilst the big black crows sail back and forth keeping an eye on everything The mallards are invigorated and have begun chasing each other ceaselessly to the disdain of the swans who, already nested, heave themselves to the waters edge for their morning ablution. ‘All about to end, all about to end’ chatters a squirrel on the oak. ‘I know’ say I, ‘twas always so’

Salty

When you cry alone in bed Flat upon your back The tears try to run back into your eyes And sting you again As if to remind you That it's your own fault.

Saltears

When you cry alone in bed Flat upon your back The tears run back into your eyes And sting you again As if to remind you That it's your own fault.

And so it was, well past the halfway of the passage, After lunch so to speak but still before evening, That he came to a lacuna, and stumbled. Something in the moment hushed the world about him And he turned, squinting back. Wondering whether he had come the right way.

Tree spirit.

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love 
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
 and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others 
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
 under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
 among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

Please ponder

Crumbling relationship

around the edges and in the cracks snuffling slithering in yellow tongued and slightly nauseous count the hour of sin watery eyes and purple veined skin like waxy plastic chalk finding ways to speak the horror finding ways not to talk slipping from a flexible structure into random lumps of soil waiting for the soup to thicken a-bringing to the boil

Worldly wounds

Its not the music that opens the gate Of grief, its not the song. Nor even the weeping tune I wont be long Its the note A minor deity Keening in my ear Sliding in like vinegar worm A-noseing in my beer Its not the story that frees the beast Of anger, its not the rhyme Not the words that tear and shred I need some time Its the letter of intention That begins and never ends It issues and demands That we stay forever friends. Even in the deepening fear, When dark retreats, reveal the cracks In shadow on the boathouse wall. Its not that Its the severing of contact A breaking of the deal The vicious look and turn away Eye spoked upon a wheel Gather them together, The song, the tale, the gut Put them in a great black pot And coldly boil them up And at bottom, when all is done A glint of loving gold To rise through all domestic scum And practice being old I cry not for me or mine Not for you or yours My tears are universal brine With salt to salve the sores.

What is this strange artifact ?

The Natural History Museum could not identify it. Briefly, found some years ago in Kibworth Beauchamp, this is a stone disc (soapstone or similar) with two tag type handles each bored with small hole. One side is smoothed the other roughly decorated. The whole thing is 9" long. Could you give me any clues or point me towards the correct identification service ?

More photos on photobucket if you are interested... http://s963.photobucket.com/albums/ae119/Stibble/Artifact/