Here is the Fen country, spinning light free; sky filling fen for fenward we

You will not have been here before

Sainte-Beauve was, perhaps, thinking about this in 1843 when he wrote about, "The secret stairs" (of de Sade's writing certainly, but also, just, within the lifetime of photography, the art that, like a staircase, always leads both backwards and forwards, may take you uphill and down).

From the Garden

Where are they hiding?

"Don't get old", she said, every time we met.

from The Special Theory of Relativity

My starcloth

Genesis in Sicilia

Last night  -this morning, really-  the phrase "a distant airplane" kept me awake. In anticipation, perhaps, of a sound I've waited for on summer nights for decades now. A light plane high up and over the hills, its muffled propeller's hum that moves slowly about the sky but whose location can only be guessed. Above woods like this, on paths that will always pull me in their wake.

God's vast head aches with dreams

Knowledge obscures what it could never be

To think of Eden is to be made aware of its impossibility. Eden is only possible once you have no words for it.

Over there, behind the low clutch of cloud on the horizon, the spirit I have walked towards  -or through-  veil over the distance that would let me see forever, and in this light…

Only love and revolution can drag us from the Platonic cave we deny being such steadfast and lifelong inhabitants of

The inability to see past even an old scrap of paper, to break through its thin surface  -this other screen-  to be before where what it describes happened.

For when it gets dark and light at the same time

"To the living one owes respect.

To the dead one owes only the truth."

Voltaire

Shadowplay

Summer's building grammar:

Eyes that open; a garden, song.

Fort-Da

When will they let you touch?

The breeze turns in fields and forests like a dreaming mind

History's rigid crust

The ground bristles with memory: words, bodies, frost

To find the unwalked lane, malted with leaves, which you might follow to the woods, its thickets round that small clearing you remember being together in, again.

Time as outstretched light

Heritage as a fear of the present: clutter instead of questions. Plaques of certainty nailed into the walls, surfaces, of our unlimited doubt.

New ritual space

Light dipped in experience

The knuckle of thought