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She sits alone, still serene and dreaming
Her days of sailing the seas long gone
No longer facing the open waters,
She dreams of high tides and strong winds
I walk towards her, braving thistles and nettles, camera in hand
I start to snap away caught in the moment
“You cant go there!” a voice booms, yet unheard by me
“You cant go there – its private property!” he booms again
I turn around, unperturbed
“Oh” I say surprised
“I had no idea, was just following where my camera was leading me!”
“Oh i have to tell everyone” the ‘Port Master’ tells me “Its private owned land”
This tiny patch of abondoned thistle-covered land is actualy owned?
I explain that I have always been drawn towards the coast and boats and love to take photos of old sea vessels. We chat awhile.
“Well go on then” he relents when he sees I mean no harm
He explained that the owner, obviously a local fisherman had died many years hence when Masie was in her heyday
This son of the fisherman was to take Masie over and to proudly sail her once again
Sadly for whatever reason, this never happened
The son never comes near
And here she sits as the years roll by
Landlocked, trapped by time and wild flowers
The Port Master warms to me and I to him and we chat on.
He explained that in the recent tidal surges they had to tie poor Masie firmly down for fear of loosing her. But all she wanted was to break her fettles; to be free to roam the seas again
The nearby fisherman’s buidings had all flooded badly in the tidal surge he said, the sea coming a third way up the walls with possesions washing away on the tide. No land beyond here could be seen, only vast unending waters; the tidal defences here are not kept in order he explained.
“Who was Masie?” I asked expectantly, longing to know her story, but sadly he did not know.
Way back in time, was she perhaps a girlfriend, a lover, a daughter, maybe someone lost on the tide of memories. We shall never know.
So here she sits, Masie; beautiful and serene, her glory days of fishing the high seas still very much evident.
She is worn yet ageless; she has seen life but never lost her spark
I sense an affinity with this old graceful lady. I can see myself dancing on the tides too…
So she silently sleeps and dreams; she dreams of the tides, of sailing free and forever leaving her dry dock behind her.
And in her dreams she bobs forever up and down, up and down, up and down, as the tide ebbs and flows in the beautiful moonlight
Dream well my Lady Masie for I too shall one day join you in your dreams….

‘The Keeper of Scrolls’

July 2018


Cafe Culture…

Cafe Culture around the world: that all important dark espresso is never more important than when traveling; a dark back-street cafe in different locations is all the pleasure i need…

There is always time to chill,  people watch and enjoy the company when outside as much as much as the coffee. Back home in Cambridge the coffee tastes every bit as divine in one’s chosen back-street haunt. People watching and espresso; what more can a heart desire?


The Keeper of Scrolls

December 2017


Street Photography: wandering the streets of London and Cologne.


<Click on an images to view and enlarge>

September 2017: Adueni KT



The moon in his eyes……

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….

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Adueni ‘Keeper of Scrolls’

May 2016

Lives in Mono

I watched the people through the glass
Their lives a mirrored reflection of each others
I stood apart
I cast no reflection
And was glad

Cambridge: March 2017


Truth is a darkness; suspended in a time that does not exsist…..

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

Digital Camera

Sounds of tinkling pipes woven by the winds own charm weave around my soul

Digital Camera

Silently i tread the years of earthly time; my one companion, my warrior soul…

Digital Camera

With breastplate and sword I stand steadfast and mighty. In silence i rule

Digital Camera

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

Digital Camera

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 still grasping the bloodied knife…



November 2016
Keeper of Scrolls