All articles

#13/30/3

15 Nov 2008

Martin wheezed. New boys at Grenfell Wealdon Associates should always try to indulge the whims of their now co-workers, but this was going a bit far, he thought. He pounded, away, on the treadmill, sweat pouring, off him, his heart, in his, throat.... Graham thrashing him at squash had felt like the limit; now he and Damien seemed to be hoping to finish Martin off, with a stint in the gym that was starting to feel less like a stint and more like the thirteenth labour of Hercules.

#5.25

9 Nov 2008

He put the bible down on his bedside table, and ran his hand over his bald patch. The frown on his face said: this is harder than I thought. When he had been a child it had been so much simpler—and shorter—with six days meaning six days, and forty nights, forty nights.

The day the river died

8 Nov 2008

(Trad. English, C21st.)

The day the river died
Was much like any other
We braved the sun upon its banks
The two of us together

The parable of the traveller and the innkeeper

11 May 2008

There was once a traveller who had left so many miles behind him that all he saw was strange to his eyes. He had begun his journey young, and almost exhausted his youth in travelling. Now he was nearly a man, but felt somehow still, in part, like a boy. He yearned to be young no more, but did not know how he might make that happen.

A chat with relatives

2 May 2008

Thoughtful, unspeaking, With head bowed He scoops clay out of brick And ceramic, That sweeter, finer lining tanned To nut-brown leather.

From a now empty beaker Ringed with ivory, Licked with thin skin, Man Calls to man Through years drained, drowned, backwashed, silted, dumped; But a child, Here under duress By the vessel in the case, Might as well be eating stones.

RSS feeds

RSS feeds for articles, news, the blog or all content. More information here.