Paul Mortimer
Carrying the yearsThe weight of years
captured in this moment of stoop and sticks. Frayed life worn like some badge .. no make that badges. Mop heads clinging to joints speaking as each stiff step is made. Entropy outwardly worn for all to see And yet and yet that sideways glance forbids any murmur of sympathy. Though outwardly the gossamer swirling round your head is web-like That look That look whispers there is still a life to be had. Tryfan
A whale back ridge rises out of Ogwen valley.
Its ridge climbs up from the llyn, leads your eyes and feet to Adam and Eve. Back to the beginning. Waiting is a dare. To leap the gap between the petrified pair. Up there in the gods, clouds clothe your breath. Serpent mist writhes, opening up snap-shot views of the Glyders ring. Here at the top, facing the dare. Shall I leap the gap between Adam and Eve? But worn out by the climb I stop. I sit. I drink and bite the apple. Sheep Spine ☊
Life and death,
bleached on to this peaty moonscape. Here it is elemental. Moor and sun, a harsh unforgiving beauty. Knuckle on knuckle. Each notch etched clear in its whiteness. No wool. No flesh. No muscle. Picked clean. Purity laid bare. Simplicity of structure in the chaos of wilderness. This is where it all ends. Bone and earth. Pale faced girl at the window
Pale faced girl at the window
watching as I drive by, leaning out of her warmth into a cold grey day. It’s a monochrome scene with her pale blonde hair, the black room behind her and a blanket sky. She sits on the sill, draws smoke lung deep, blows hard in the air so as not to taint her room. Bravely gunning down Marakina minersWhen you have an automatic rifle you are brave.
When you have body armour you are brave. When you have a helmet you are brave. When you stand in line with the others you are brave. When you all take aim you are brave. When the black South African miner stands before you with a wooden club you are brave. Your bravery sweeps him away. ♢ |
HabitEvery morning, regular as clockwork.
He marches past my sash window. Determination in every step. Full head of grey hair, eyes fixed four paces in front. Every morning, whatever the weather. Today it just sits there, waiting for the conductor to wave her baton, drumming up wind, sun, rain or whatever else is written on the meteorological score. For now the iron black branches just beyond St Andrews house are still. And here he is. Marching back again. The Guardian tucked hard under his right arm. The same paper each day. The same navy blue jumper. Eyes front. Four paces. Regular as clockwork. I watch him. Visions sent downstream
Speaking words of woods, valleys and
moors over the weir, I watch as these images are washed away to some distant ocean. The Argument
Iron sky,
steel river. There’s an edge to the day. Steady rain sulks its way over the landscape. Rain-slicked muscular trees flex their branches in a rising wind. Finally the storm breaks. Wind rips through, stripping trees. Birds and leaves tumble over the fields. River rages as it flees to the sea. And in the black cold night shocked stars blink back the tears Silence
Snow suffocates the shuffling of nature.
No longer can wind worry at autumn’s leafy remnants. All loose ends are tied up, neatly buried in a new world that’s stealthed in under cover of darkness. In this wire-taut quiet my hearing is keening at the silence. Just your steady breathing breaching my ears. The girl at Carluccio's She’s
so imposs- ibly thin there’s no ro om to fit her bones and org ans in |
