Tuesday 1st January


A four mile walk to the rhythm of rain, accompanied by naked dancing
hedge rows. Heroic trees raise up on hind legs, proud Lipizzaners,
caught in cracks of winter light, Weegee crime scenes at the forest edge.
Sweet smell of leaf mould, startling colours of vibrant cans, cartons
consumed by mud & succulent Autumn Browns. Foreign materials ejected
though windows of passing cars whose tyres hiss like beat poems, emerge
hungry from blind corners , no pavements. Legends cast into grills of iron
drains, throaty waters gargle deep with the sodden earth. Violent greens,
mosses cling to dripping dry stone walls & bracken rusts beneath barbed wire
where sheep graze ambivalent to the rhythm of footfall. With so much
still to eat, who’d waste time pondering just another boy with a camera.

Up in the hills, out on the Edge of the World, watching sparks arc off the
backs of celebrating beasts, I play John Grant, grin & map new journeys –
Time to travel, once again it seems.