Salted Maybe there are choices to be made the cawing crow doesn't seem conflicted undisturbed by harbingers of the future I will roll up the hill drift out to sea taste the salt on my tongue a seasoning to keep me for tomorrow ©AndrewJamesMurray #workinprogress
Seven Winds The seven winds. Are there seven? Stapling 'Missing' posters to telegraph poles sweaty black leather and the odorous stink of sex and B.O. A slip with a girl's number on it found in the pocket of an old coat ragged and threadbare could she still be out there? a fixed point in a perishing dream. Coffee. Caffeine doesn't keep you awake it's a myth it's the toilet trips that need to piss every goddamned hour slipping through the tincture of light that crawls from the horizon with a Kirlian glow. There are friends long gone who festered for a while couldn't take the hint but maybe I was their project grasping for words as the dying gasp for breath carving my affections instead into the flesh of trees. ©AndrewJamesMurray
We, At This Time A virginal shroud settles upon our abodes. Fairy lights flicker in the long night. Inside, all manner of songs and odes are offered to acclaim our rite. Those of us not overtly religious indulge themselves out of tradition. Those of us not openly pious offer tacit prayers without petition. But all desire to feel the joy that shines forth from every child's eyes. An augury, in innocence's employ, that lifts the soul amongst the winter skies. Though we partake in the gathered feast, and survive the night imbibing wine, we recognise, when all has ceased, that part of man inherently divine. ©Andrew James Murray
Pumpkin
a hollowed out,
rictus grin
placed prominently
at this liminal time
a curious crossroads
of old and new
with but a cursory nod
to the peaceful host
frail shelter
from this Samhain storm
a rail of russet leaves
and borne
the broken limbs
of oak
and scorned
a single flame,
faltering.
©Andrew James Murray
Kittiwakes Kittiwakes on iron girders, man-made cliff edges to which they return to breed away from the tumult of the North Sea, settling upon this industrial, rusting enclave, still singing of the waves at two in the morning. ©Andrew James Murray
It is that time of year again,
when the still-dark morning
calls me outside,
the sky softly tinged blue
and a flirting breeze,
the heraldic song of the blackbird
lightening the shadows.
Pitched dreams lost
on a black canvas.
Goose-flesh crawl
in tender dawn.
Strange hotel room
with a murderous vibe.
The mind runs on,
and on, and on.
©Andrew James Murray
