february 4 3013

Cernunnos the horned god lies shimmering among the mirrored trees
A ghost of a god
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the light comes out and wellingtons covered in gunk stay underwater up to shins, we have discovered a horned sheep’s skull huge dark eye membraned in tree reflected liquid- water giving four horizons, skull is caught against the largest gatekeeper of the huddle pond, laying low I am sitting on it now at the other end, i boot in, one out, and along its length of drowning wood tiny circles of woodworm spongy insides sumptuous moss – it is held caught, looking further out I see what must be a thigh bone but is wood dispersal, diaspera of the bones, held in sky reflected branches and brown wiggles,bubbles, lines with white abstract shapes like paintings but really just the forcing through of light, crissing and crossing and coagulating, so many ripplings at once, the flickering, bickering jiggle like a hoover noise as movement, the slight cresent of the line resounding from a tiny drop ranging out like map contours,lines, slow mush and bubble jellying more lumpily on surface- the running, tripping, lengthening of what a breeze does to still water, a thousand forests, a lump of old mulch, horned skull, layering of reflection, sinister eye, sacred horn, come up from the depths whiter and complete we have decided to take it away with us totem of our wandering, our collecting, our collecting, this is and isn’t it’s burial place it is unearthed to be water bound, branch held, oozed out, it bears its own life lived and died died here in the birth of death pond we are gathering, gathering, as waters die back we find as expected but still shocking the bones, yellow and spongy too, circle marks, graceful curve of vertebrae wing sycamore

and now 500 seagulls fly under head reflected down another level, high up above almost soundless, I noticed them corner of eye flying over pond tried to catch upside down flying with camera and of course I missed it, missed again, i will have trees and bottom of pond and bubbles and mess and today too difficult to write, entering the hedge a pelvis under my feet stoppered me then out of a low overhang a spoon dull but cupped up catching the drops, a stream’s cup of tea? strange site, dainty and level, then the sprawl of open back bones slinking up the bank, whose life are we seeing disintegrate – its not like I keep forgetting these bones held a body but I am finding my own life reflected in the bones letting go how rare to see such a process time after walk after visit, not knowing if its one or more and each bone further and further away. This must be the way we earth why I fight cremation, I want to be earthed have since a child some elemental need to go to ground not fire though all to air eventually. I will always return to my pond cathedral now monumental burial site like all land just exposed to me, joining earth water air fire- this moment of cut sun blazing straight in on me shockingly

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Spinal kite stranded high in the hedge
Stegasaurus plates, hooked on
A ladder to the sky, beginning nowhere
P1060931elevated bones, calmly watched well not watched by sheep, a flying spine hooked 10 feet up over a branch – entwigged – how- it’s story a storm hallucinating, a farmer flipping it out of his way, weather, just weather, leaving it adrift along the top of trees air bourne it links to another unexplained story, human, inhuman, animal, elemental and we flounder before it wool gathering tipped on brambles blown like swotted bees nests, a congregation of puppet mourners whisp clothed and huddled. I am wooled, sheeped, bone tumbled. Gathering debris of old lives we hunger for attachment as we linger in the dispersal afraid and yet accepting linked in our own vertebraes of families below grandchild, child, children above older bones, parents and parting, that way too, all part as we part middle age

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gathering, collecting, tying bones together, undoing bones, treacherous simplification, yet so calming to grow to accept the growing, groping towards an ever changing dispersal, because we try to grasp, to have, to understand, to capture, knowing its unlikely, knowing its impossible but knowing its the cloven rule, our dis-creating selves, buried by air, so there

bone stealers

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