The 2,800-Year-Old Kiss

I saw this on the Facebook site History In Pictures.

Discovered in 1972 in the Solduz Valley, the pair are estimated to have died around 800 B.C.

All those years, locked in this loving embrace.

 

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Book Giveaway

So-today is National Book Lover’s Day. This event totally passed me by until a family friend who shares my love of literature rang me up to wish me:

Happy Book Lover’s Day!

To say I was a little bemused would be an understatement. Anyhow, I wondered how to mark this momentous day on City Jackdaw, then I thought: how about hosting a giveaway?

I offer up a signed copy of my book Heading North. It is my debut poetry collection, published in December by Nordland Publishing.

Anyone who comments on this post will be entered into a draw that will be conducted by my daughter Millie on Monday. I’m quite proud of my book, and hope that there is someone out there who will enjoy it, too.

I wish you luck!

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Last Night Walk

You can’t help but walk around craning your neck as you look high. It’s the unusual juxtaposition of these monoliths of light framed against the night sky. They draw your vision skyward, dwarfed by our own creations.

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With a view to remembering, I had set off on my final night’s walk, crossing the bridge behind my hotel, at dusk.

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I took the same route as last time, but this day being a Sunday meant the atmosphere was more subdued, the army of office workers gone, leaving behind a vacuum for nature and a wandering Manc to fill.

I had this familiar, definite trail in mind, but, as often happens, it was birds that led me astray.

As darkness fell, I heard gulls somewhere overhead. Studying the night sky, I could make out their aerial skirmishes beneath the towering cranes.

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I began to walk towards the direction the birds had flown in, now aware that I could hear the carcophonous shrieking of many others somewhere up ahead. And so they led me from my safe and ordered plan.

They took me to a point called Limehouse Lock, a part of Canary Wharf I hadn’t been to before. I stood there, against iron railings, peering out to locate the gliding forms.

There were hundreds of gulls-skimming above the dark waters of the Thames. Some low, just above the surface, some higher, all moving as one great flock.

Don’t gulls sleep at night, even in a city that doesn’t sleep?

At night it is always dark water. I could remember looking out over the Saltsjön one evening in Stockholm, regarding the depths there as black water. Expansive and ominous, deep and threatening, I thought of Lindqvist’s book Harbour. In that novel, the writer made an evil entity out of the whole body of water, no doubt influenced by the death of his own father who was lost at sea.

I could imagine it, this great mass, untameable and omnipresent, claiming all who are foolish enough to try to master it.

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I stayed for a while. Away from the bright lights of the city, here was the greater thrill: being led to somewhere different, somewhere new, by these feathered guides. Watching them move uninhibited en masse over the masking shadows of the Thames.