I sent this to my wife, said it might help her with her fear of cats.
Back to the drawing board.
And divorce court.
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Tag Archives: Musing
Claws For The Weekend: Going Out On A Limb
My wife always says that she needs an extra pair of hands.
Well I found her some in Leeds.
Jackdaw regulars may recall that the last time I was there it was legs that caught my eye.
Pretty soon I’ll have my self a new woman. My own Frankenstein’s monster.
Have a great weekend everyone. See you on the flip side.
In Remembrance
Remembering Sharon Tate who, along with her unborn child and four other people, was savagely killed fifty years ago today by the Manson Family.
Within A Dampened Twilight
I love this photograph of Deansgate, Manchester, taken during a heavy rainstorm this August, 2019.
Taken from Deansgate Station, it has been likened to a Lowry painting.
It was taken by Simon Buckley, an artist whose photographs I discovered in his blog Not Quite Light, featuring photographs of the older, northern parts of the city that I love when, well, it was not quite light.
His blog led me to his website, where you can view and purchase copies of his prints:
22 Miles; 300 Million Gallons
Yesterday, the 1st of August.
Lughnasadh, the beginning of the harvest season.
What will we harvest? Will we reap what we sow? I don’t mean to get all biblical on you.
In Manchester yesterday, some of the older buildings of Dantzic Street here are dwarfed by the omnipresent CIS tower. The blue skies obscured by menacing clouds. The transition point of old and new; the transition point of summer and autumn.
I had 19th Century ancestors that lived on Dantzic Street, though I’m not as knowledgeable about that particular branch to tell you about them. Yet.
I got home to learn about the drama unfolding twenty two miles away in Whaley Bridge, Derbyshire. Toddbrook Reservoir looms high above the town, much higher than that Manchester CIS tower. As torrential rain continued to fall, it was discovered that part of the dam wall was damaged. With a 50-50 chance of the water, all 300 million gallons of it, rushing down onto, into, over, the town below, the thousand residents were evacuated.
Whaley Bridge now sits as a ghost town, a ghost town waiting to be either swamped or saved. An unwanted cleansing of biblical proportions.
There I go again.
Today, this second day of August, the battle goes on. RAF helicopters, engineers, volunteers, all working together to try and hold back the tide, aided thankfully by a dry night.
We wait to discover the nature of this harvest.
Word Jam #13
from my poetry blog
from a restful source
to rushing rapids,
migrating salmon
-Osprey fodder,
snatched on silent
Atlantic missions,
slivers of light
transfiguring elements:
water to sky;
life to death
Anglo-American Relations
