Statuesque

That's why we chose to grow them.

Cardoons.

Stunning in every season.

The wind has had it's way with dried out stems.

They still sway, taller than me.

Empty cells creak in the breeze.

Fallen branches crack into papery sticks.

Disappointing when dipped into ink.

Dry as polished wood.

Brittle as thorn edge.

Last Summer's flower heads start to fall to earth.

Worn out confetti.

Carefree hair.

Breaking apart.

Fading into monochrome.

The ground has sucked back the colours.

Gorged on the silvery greens.

Drunk that purple blue bee heaven.

Hoards them in the dark.

We pause to look.

Another kind of beautiful.

I also wrote a piece about cardoons way way back in the early days of Inkhaven. You can read the piece here. And if you do read it and wonder who Spot is, it was my aka name!

Estampes

The glass of wine

the casserole

the rain pouring from the roof

like it will never end.

The hilly street

turned white water

a temporary stream

and then that music

on the radio

Jardins sur la pluie.

Shadows in the candlelight

cut a print across the wall.

Losing myself

Direction wasn't an issue.

The day just blasted in and I couldn't get out of the house fast enough once I'd found my sunglasses. The tracks were sticky with black mud that sucked at my boots, that felt like they would suck me down if I stopped slithering for long enough. But there was a hint of gold on the gorse and a few tiny lambs napping on grassy banks. Shadows were writing secret messages along the fence.

Ways I had walked out other times made broken tracks across flooded fields and fell into the tidal rush of the snaking river.

And from higher ground, as I turned away from the wind rush, the hat and scarf went into my bag for the first time this year.

I sat on the steps watching the shadows swing round, waiting for the tide to fall away some more so I could be the first to step on the newly swept beach. Out on gritty sand and broken shells, I ventured to take my coat off and just sat there for the rest of the afternoon next to half buried rope.

And it didn't take long for that wonderful brain unwinding that I've been waiting for, that I can never find indoors, to run away with me. And I was gone. Phew - what a relief!!

Cabin fever

A small high tide for us today. Above the dark swaying fringe of evidence where the highest waves had struck, most of the stones were pale and dry. One of those soft days of grey sea and muted symphonic skies.

Towering cumulus were cut through by a horizon that pinked their towering blooms at the edges like in old style tourist posters that promise sun tomorrow. The sun broke through in just a few places, slanted down great girders of light to spot the sea like patches mark a horse's back. And West of here, a strange green shade like the pastel colours seen in films of the Northern Lights, muffled the swell out where clouds hung low.

I was walking home in not quite enough clothes and my eyes were gobbling it all up and trying not to cry in the wind. Not enough time outdoors. The cabin fever is getting to me.

I came home, switched the radio on to hear by chance something wonderful I'd not played for many years. Memories fell into image drift as I stewed blackberries harvested last Autumn. They inked my fingers with purple stains.

The water's view

Click.

The Lowry Footbridge in motion on the surface of the Manchester Ship Canal.

All smiles

All smiles.

What we needed

Winter sun warming the backs of knees

as we carry coats up the hill home.

West Pier diggers

When I saw the headline, I rushed down to the beach, knowing I'd missed this morning's low tide by a few hours. I was thinking that the concert hall would have been scooped up from the sand like a toy on a fairground grabber game that always grinds to a halt just before you win, that there would be nothing left to see.

They'd talked about it long enough. I knew it was a case of waiting for those lowest of low tides that I so love for the demolition team to speed into action, their plan being to remove the concert hall which was the wreckage closest to shore. The main "island" is apparently going to remain.

So, this was the scene as I arrived with a new view and the tangled remains dumped in a heap. Removal job complete. And piece after piece was being dumped in enormous skips. Very sad to see a full one being driven away.

So, there will be no more of those lovely inky shadowy shots like I posted here that were taken when I was standing underneath the arched girders for the last time, not knowing I should have been saying goodbye to one of the wildest parts of town.