Author: Solsort

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flamed

a golden pebble beach in the foreground has evening shadows, but the foaming sea is still catching the sun and the background sky is still light. Small rocks and short, weathered wooden posts protrude from the shallow sea foam.
water music
The journey to the sea is not that easy,
never the simple escape my wandering
soul desires. I do go there in my dreams,
easing the strain of daily arts commuting
with music older than amber, pre-dating
life with sounds of water washing on stone.
I imagine the journey that carries me
closer, closer yet always further from the
defining moments of love that create,
colour, recreate. In tidal waves
of emotional inspiration the making
ebbs and flows, finally appearing; bowing
only to acknowledge the perseverant.
My practice flames like the sun, like love,
the ending inconceivable, unfinished;
a creative compulsion integral to
the journey, the practice that is me.
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shimmy and shiver

looking down into the blue sky reflection on the river there are also trees and clouds, plus a glimpse of the green riverbank and willow trees.
river clouds
Sun kissed early morning rivulets
shimmy and shiver over seven stones
as the rising sun plays hide and seek
with the rolling cloud; fleckles of gold
twirl a chattering route over meadows,
through reedbeds. Teasing the sharp eyes of
warbling birds, silent vole and laughing ducks,
the river carries its reflections
in shiny sequins, races the hidden
fireball now high over seasonal cloud
breaking only to conspire in a wink,
as they both head for the reunion
where rivergold and sungold will dance
a rocking embrace with summer sea.
Rocking every second until sundown,
salt and silt fading black surrender
to the soft swish rhythm of the moon.
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gold rising

view of sungold behind a dark foreground of trees and greenery. the blue sky has lines of cloud like flattened out herringbone, that reflect the sungold
sky fire
Rose gold rising, the sun
edges its way into the
meandering water;
begins its slow-motion
leap cròssing the valley.
Crossing the river in
early morning to play
on the downs; in the tree
canopies where my heart
dances in the shadows
of flickering woodland,
dances and yearns for the
secrets and mysteries
shimmering through the green;
before slipping into
the unseen sea lapping
below the horizon,
out of sight, but never
not part of my journey.
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river dark

brown - almost black - and white image of winter trees reflected in water. A solitary duck creates ripples that distort the reflections into interesting patterns
memories in water.

Visiting grandmother on Sundays, we walked.
Walked round the farm with ginger pig – big boar;
over the humpback stone bridge crossing small stream
with sticklebacks wriggling in crystal water.
Bull, snorting in the walled square of trampled mud;
turkey, horrific alien from a strange
alternate world. We crossed and recrossed small stream
until it became river. And river, dark, deep,
slid its way cold, forbidding along the base 
of the windowless wall of the local jail.
And river scurried in rush and tumble past 
the hangman’s cottage; eddied and twirled on slabs
of smooth white stone where the gipsies washed their clothes.
River headed away under the trees, while
we took the turning to grandmother’s fruit cake.
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bohemian witness

A view into the autumnal branches of deciduous trees leading to the river. The image is predominantly brown and gold
autumn trees

Part of my life I lived
a tributary to 
Gudenå, the river;
bohemian witness
dedicated artist,
stoic, pouring my grief
into its quiet water;
unquiet days of waiting
offering nothing but harm.
A gently salt rivulet,
creeping through seasonal
trees; copper-orange, gold,
lime-green and apple-dark;
returned with my tears.
Or waterfall, crashing
heartbreak into passing
ripples from the ancient
long forgotten railbridge;
returned with my tears.
Gudenå received my grief
into her broad, but short
stretch of riverbed, wound
away without looking back.
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sublime joy

beautiful deep blue sky with a few whisps of bright white cloud around the brillant white orb of the sun
clear blue
I sleep facing the horizon,
facing the point where the sun makes
entry into my day, seen or
unseen. And this day I awoke
with sunwarm kissing my skin; a first
for this year, this miserable year.
I sleep parallel to the river,
we both look to the morning skies,
share a moment of sublime joy
on this day, this day of the clear blue,
and the fierce heat of June sparkle.
Sun makes the first move, heading west,
south westerly west, while I pause
in the ritual preparations
before my own migration east,
north easterly east, as we both
cross the river, x over the river,
heading our separate ways, but
never leaving; never leaving,
leaving the river.
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river, rock, village, garden…

In various shapes and sizes, in colours from dark red-brown to paleyellow-cream, nine leaves, dried and pressed, saved on a page with a black and white african inspied pen and ink border.
Mulungushi memory


At the curved Zambezi river-edge
the wide cane bed stood foot-end to the

water; intoxicated, sprawled over
white linen, I lay with not my feet,
but my chin hung over the edge.
I watched the sun melt, with sudden
swiftness fade into the darkening 
water. I made some attempt to
close my eyes, but wonder held me
spellbound, too wide awake for rest.
Under mosquito netting and
the thatched roof of my tented cottage
I listened to the sounds of Africa.
The smells of Africa. Adrenalin
won over any compulsion to sleep.
 
My African dawn is rich with
aroma; with sickly-sweet
pong of monkey poo and the roiling
gurgle of hippo farts as the sun
heralds reappearance over
a bright orange horizon and gold,
river gold highlighting the heads,
small ears and the mammoth mouths
of partially submerged hippos;
a red-gold fire flickering in
circles of Zambezi water.
And flaming the jewel green of
dung beetles busy removing
the evidence of monkeys from
under the tree at the head of my bed.
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wild across the earth

Blue river foreground, white Bridge midground, Skytree towering over skyscrapers in the background. Clear blue sky, black suspension cables diagonally across the image and a glimpse of a leafy cherry tree in the foreground.
Chuo Ohashi across Sumida River to Skytree
River is the constant
like children running wild
across the earth. I hang my hat
by Gudenå, Potomac,
Zambezi and Sumida
and watch the river passing
passing with its metaphors;
passing to the sea with
sticklebacks and crocodiles with
tsunami silt and bull sharks,
pike and crane. From Tinnet Krat;
through Occoquan; from Mwinilunga;
under Chuo Ohashi; river crashes,
yawns, meanders, tumbles.
Carries my reflections; away
from Hamarikyu wild duck graves;
away from Mosi-oa-Tunya; away
from Picasso stone, Fountainhead;
from Kattegat Sound through Skagerrak
river is the constant.
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secret intent

looking across the river to the natural watermeadows tees frame the image and the blue sky is heavy with bright white-grey cloud.
home river
Mist sits heavy in the valley;
the green mysterious meadows
hold water and river warmth, or
the lingering winter cold; not
quite the properties of a land
mass. Flooding independently
of the river, greening out of
sync with the land, nature creates
water meadow structures still not
fully understood by floundering
guardians or eager exploiters
of potential, cashable assets.
Thrushes forage oblivious;
the egret holds perfectly still
waiting the one perfect moment;
voles swim secretively intent
through liquid gold reflections and
moles make frequent migrations to
the high banks bordering this still
mysterious sanctuary;
this semi-urban wilderness
with its own unique cacheable
value.
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green lung

from the nettles and cow parsley, looking across the river to meadows, the view is interupted by the slim branch of a youngish willow. The rippling river surface reflects sky and greenery
bank and branch
Life, lived in a river valley comes
with its very own micro-climate;
swirls of mist, lingering dampness, the
frost that rolls down from surrounding hills.
Seasonal midges take turns biting
my exposed skin and flying ants swarm
in my face, in my clothes and my hair.
It also comes with the risk of floods;
depends upon the uncommon sense
of my not so local council to
resist the temptation to plan homes,
hypermarkets; concrete and tarmac,
on the sensitive surface of lush
water meadow. Maintaining and not
upsetting, the delicate balance;
treasuring this habitat as a resource
enhancing the lives of our future
generations with a green lung that
winds its way through the growing city.