Street Photography: wandering the streets of London and Cologne.
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September 2017: Adueni KT
Inspired by an ancient waymarker in a silent churchyard way up on Exmoor; a land that has so many tales to tell, if only it could…..
A solitary waymarker stands tall, marking the boundary of the graveyard; a tick upon the land. No blood, no sign of any struggle, not now. A girl long ago cruelly hunted down and burned, leaving no trace; just ashes, dust scattered to the winds on that wild and desolate moor, where these days only the wind howls to the moon.
Not for the likes of her sweet and loving soul, the serenity of a consecrated graveyard. Not for the likes of her the dignity of remembrance. Not for the likes of her an epitaph carved lovingly in stone; only the winds and rain to wash away all traces.
All she did was to fall in love, to surrender her heart and soul to the one who loved her back. All she did was fall in love wildly with a passion of her being way beyond her years. All she did was fall in love with a dark and wild immortal with the wind in his hair and the moon in his eyes. All she did was to allow him to love her back.
All she did was to kiss him on that wet and stormy night in that dark, desolate graveyard way up there upon the moors. It was all she did, one kiss, one passionate and rain-soaked kiss. It was all she did, she fell in love with the immortal with the wind in his hair.
Some nights when wandering up there on the wild moors, one can almost catch the movement of shadows out of the corner of one’s eyes. One can almost hear the rustling of wet leaves and the sound of damp footsteps running frantically through the graveyard.
One can almost imagine in the darkness, the waymarker with the sturdy gorse bush still growing at its foot after all these years, on an otherwise dry patch of lifeless earth where nothing else will ever grow. And if one was to imagine sinking down upon one’s hands and knees under the waymarker, one can almost see the rivulets of blood running forth onto wet saturated garments in the rain; up there on the moors.
And some nights when the moon is round and the air is dry it is not hard to imaging a lonely cloaked figure under the waymarker scraping away at the parched black earth where nothing lives. One could almost imagine a figure with the wind in his hair, uncovering an old and crumbling piece of wood tossed away in haste by those who feared a vengeful god and who had time and guilt on their hands; a simple weapon that had long ago pierced his lover’s trusting heart.
One could almost imagine
Whilst up there on the moors….
Adueni ‘Keeper of Scrolls’
Endlessly i fall caught in a chasm of wonder. Spralling onwards
The bones of my being find shelter & solace ‘neath the comforting shadow of my soul
Sounds of tinkling pipes woven by the winds own charm weave around my soul
Silently i tread the years of earthly time; my one companion, my warrior soul…
With breastplate and sword I stand steadfast and mighty. In silence i rule
Beauty always lingers and lives on in the hearts & minds of men, time cease to be & all there is is the truth….
My name is silence only whispered by the wind when the sky is dark
Suspended timelessly in a space of my own creation; i weave reality with the electrons of my mind…..
All secrets revealed, all knowledge known. At the end of days i shall become into being and She will rise within
And so it goes on bood spilled, innocents ravaged man’s death on the cards….
The time is now here for man to be accounted. Too late for good deeds…
Save your soul, lest you weep and pray for no more tears. Tis over, all done…
Beach huts hibernate dreaming of hot days and sand. Returning cycles
Beauty always lingers and lives on in the hearts & minds of men, time ceases to be & all there is is the truth. The land will endure over centuries of upheavel, always renewing itself at perfect points giving humanity life once more
Words from the ‘Keeper of Scrolls’ ‘Truth is is darkness suspended ina time that does not exsist’
January 2017 (All photos and words are original and belong to the author)
It wasn’t the shadows in the woods that haunted me most
It was the ones in your eyes
It wasn’t the wind screeching through the bare boughs that bought me deathly chills
It was your terrified scream
It wasn’t the track through the forest leading nowhere
It was your frantic footsteps running… running…
It wasn’t the lake serene and beautiful on that moonless night
It was your body; serene and beautiful in the water
It wasn’t the single red bloom that fluttered silently out of nowhere to rest upon your breast
It was that single drop of red blood
It wasn’t my hands loving and tender
It was the white of my knuckles grasping the still bloodied knife…
Photography – me
Keeper of Scrolls