Low River

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Low River

Listless and limp;
unmoving bowers,

no rain to wash
her barren banks

or call to arms
redundant
birds,

incumbent on
unforgiving 
scree.

A hiker
slides
an angled 
drop,

picks a route
along
the exposed spine,

leaves behind
dislodged stones.




©AndrewJamesMurray

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Thought For The Day

North and South Korea getting together for coffee and now Abba bringing out new material. I think I’ve slipped into a parallel world. Probably some time during the school holidays.

Morning Theft.

I’ve been having one of those nights.

I love Buckley, his voice; his playing.

And it’s all such a damn waste isn’t it? Such a tragic, pointless death that could have been easily avoided.

He left us without reaching anything like his potential, but that is just my own selfish lament.

After that acclaimed debut album, Grace, he was finally ready to record the follow up. He sent cassette demo recordings of the new songs he’d been working on to his band so they could familiarise themselves with them on their way over.

While his friends were in the air Jeff was already drowning in the Wolf River. Following his father Tim Buckley into an early grave.

Those songs, destined for an album named My Sweetheart The Drunk were eventually released posthumously on Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk. 

Further hints of what could have been.

This is one of those songs, one I’ve been playing over tonight. Beautiful, and poignant with the opening lines

Time takes care of the wound
So I can believe
You had so much to give
You thought I couldn’t see

R.I.P Jeff. Keep singing.

 

 

 

 

The Ghosts Of East End Children

Taken in the early 1880’s, this is one of the earliest images of the East End of London.

I love the way the children appear insubstantial and ghost-like, which in effect they are. Lingering echoes of lives long lost, wandering along now vanished streets.

image