Confounded Letters

Open letters to myself on Creation.

Humming the Song through a Feather in the Mists of Time. A Confounded Letter

The act of climbing a mountain is changed succinctly and dramatically by the act of observing the climb

A Piece of me unsure A Suite in 4

Useless, she just said.
Cherry

A Soft Caress of Welcome and the Scent of Old High Places.

These were her words. These were the notes musical that tried to convince me of the strangely impossible.
Cherry

A Weather Stripped Mountain and Caves under Trees. A Confounded Letter.

A whole experience for me, to me, explained in my sickness and the lies of those who said, illness suits you.

Last week I went up a mountain

Wind froze and carpet snow swirled, displaying and lifting its skirts for all to see.
Story of the week

The Complete Confounded Letters, plus a new one.

Do the Gods have dreams? But then you cannot blame them.
Cherry

It begins and ends with an acoustic piece I have some sympathy with.

We are fools, that at least is evident. Talk not of our foolishness and remember.

Intaglio is all in the Subtle Wrist. A Confounded Letter on Painting.

Leave that alone always. Never come back to that one pushed against the wall.

His eye moved across the face of the Century

Meemawing mothers in curlers and ash flicked acted cough bandied about gate gossip all day.

The Complete Wastefulness of an Educational Summer

Peace, past and present. Smooth sounds and trilling bird Summers. A Confounded letter on Sixties holidays

Hy Brassil and Environs calmed in a Summer's breeze.

A shot sound of bright canvas contrast. Articulation creaks of new rope on shiny surfaces. The cool that feels good blowing south smooth.
Cherry

The Colt with the Blaze. The Song of its Short Beautiful Life.

A night, short in June with bats and moths attracted by rainbow fluid ligh

She thinks of missing once he has gone home. Waiting for the Dream of Gerontius.

Little things irritate, like they always do and larger things send her screaming for a room with the door always closed.

Morning Wished, Drawn and Coloured in. A Pastorale.

As it was, is and in all that's wanted. As it is, for all its disappointments.

The reality of bent nostalgia and good drunks

When he hit, boy laughed. Small fearful, feral laugh. Who knows why? But he did and boy knew when.

The loss of an ill fated romantic in a life mechanical.

Her times and history had long gone. Her voices in the high places were lost in the winds and flurries of storms.