Crows A disheartening of crows gathered in winter fields. Naked trees from disused rail road tracks, dark stains on white linen. In trust we are led through this stark terrain, senses soaked in sparse liquor, a hungry air tasting our flesh, a murmuring of hardened, thirsting soil. They rise, wheeling, across the sky, black flecks of mortality in widening whites of eyes. ©AndrewJamesMurray
Sometimes I walk around blind. Many times I have walked up and down Balloon Street in Manchester, a thoroughfare that connects Shudehill Bus Station and Manchester Victoria Train Station.
I have even cast an absent thought in the direction of this street name, thinking it a little unusual without looking into it.
Just up or down it.
James Sadler, the first English aeronaut, made the first manned balloon ascent near to this spot. I’ve since discovered that he was accompanied by a cat. It seems that this poor feline remains anonymous, whitewashed from history.
All of this took place on the 12th of May, 1785.
I wonder if they’ve come down yet?
I’m sat on this rainy day in a cafe, drinking coffee and reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and Other Tales Of Terror.
The title of this post comes, not from Jekyll, but from the included gothic vampire tale Olalla, which has captivated me on this gloomy morning. It’s to stories such as this that I habitually begin to turn to around this time.
Even just out of a heatwave, and the recent cessation of the hill fires, maybe it’s the sensing of those approaching blue, irregular nights that puts me in this frame of mind.
Our new student has arrived.
We were expecting a girl who is of Luxembourg nationality. Turns out it’s a lad who was born in Luxembourg, is actually Belgian, lives in France and flew from Italy.
But he’s a City fan so all’s well.
With all of this talk about fake news, there’s only one thing I want to know:
Did we land on the moon or not?!!
From my poetry blog
Raw Mojo The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves. Buried beneath a pine cone, needles. Drink 'til I can drink no more; just watch the dead impose in plagues. A girl, dark, unfamiliar, dares to draw the focus of these phantom scarred eyes, blood rushing in her alluring anonymity. A taste of ash, I eat my father. I am an amalgamation of anecdote and mannerism. Assimilated slow and left to boil. Magisterial day. Insouciant night. Sin suggests an arbitrator. I need a new translation, from the prophet's native tongue. ©AndrewJamesMurray