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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


Time to stop….?

Opening doors and running through rooms
Running, running, running through dark rooms
Running through darkness, feeling the mud holding and clinging
Seeing faces from a past that never was
Hearing voices from a future never to be
Opening doors and running through rooms
Quick, quick, run, run
Don’t stay still, don’t let the door slam
Keep ahead of the crowd, ahead of your thoughts
Stay ahead of the truth, run through the room
Shut the door, shut it all in
Dare to breathe, dare to cry
Dare to live, yet dare to die?
Shut the door, stay in the room, crouch on the floor
Time for tears, time to cry
Lock the door, keep it all out
Tired, tired of running
Time to stop, time to slow, time to live, time to grow
Time to embrace the truth as it is
Step up to life to bury the lies
Swing the hatchet, hold it down
Come alive in the blood
As you roar, as you roar
Open the door and see all your fears
Open the door, see what it reveals
See life in a room that’s not gone wrong
Stay in one place, slow
Slow to a beat, take one breath
Chill to the beat. sing to the rhythm
Vibrate with life, flow with the pain
Be whole once again
It’s life, it’s hard, this is it, this is now
Hold on, hold on
Catch the light, catch the time
Catch the breath, catch the now!


August 2017


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


Zodiac: an interpretation of Haiku

Also from February’s Allographic Workshop
Seasonal Hauki with the chosen word of ‘Zodiac’

The dark winter skies
Clothe the Earth in icy cold
Zodiac sleeping

Then springtime flies in
Sweet scents and verdant new growth
Zodiac waking

Summer heat, too hot
Desert dry upon the skin
Zodiac listless

At last Autumn comes
All is calm within the skies
Zodiac rebirths


February 2017
“The Keeper of Scrolls”

Ego Derived…..

From the Allographic workshop in Cambridge these words resonated in my mind from the word ‘Ego’:
Power… Fear… Uptight… Chains… Boundaries… Delusion… Lies… Humanity… Crushed… Fruitless… Commanding… Deadly… Visionless…

And from those words a poem birthed:

Hidden within humanity
Are the boundaries of delusion
Held strong by misplaced power
Fed by fruitless fear and lies
In a visionless future world
Hides the deadly chains
The lock and key lost in time
Yet time itself already crushed
Within its own delusion of lies
A fruitless circle of becoming
As the Serpent is fed


‘The Keeper of Scrolls’ at the Allographic Workshop 2017

Who Will Dance With Me?

Who will dance with me?
Who will pluck a rose and place it in my hair?
Who will beat the drum?
Write the words and sing the song?
Who will dance my dance?
Swirl me round the dance floor when the last tune has gone?
Or is it me and only me who knows the tune; can sing along?
Rhythm pounds inside my head
I dance alone;
I dance alone;
I dance alone.


September 2010
“The Keeper of Scolls”


Slumbering Knights from days of old
Mythical Beasts; stories untold
Fact and fiction are bound as one
Truth is hidden by the earthly sun
Dare to see what’s before your eyes
Look to the heavens and beyond the skies
Rhyme and reason is no more
Illusion is bound on these earthly shores
Hear the story; read the rhymes
Take a leap right out of time
The truth is where it’s always been
Yet hidden deep within your dream
With the slumbering Knight
On the shores of time
With the mythical beast
No more seen…


January 2017

‘The Keeper of Scrolls’

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)

The Visit… a seasonal poem

That time around midnight
When the air hangs as cold and as still as death itself.
When the earth sleeps
And only the creatures of the night are out foraging for food.
That was the time
When I saw her.
I had popped out to empty the rubbish.
I had my eyes half screwed up and was hunched because of the cold.
I didn’t notice anyone there at first.
The shadows;
They always seem to come alive at that time of night.
Yet I caught a faint flicker,
A kind of glimmer in the darkness.
Assuming it was light escaping from my half open kitchen door,
I made my way around the side of the house to the bin.
As I came back to the garden I heard a faint sound,
A beating of wings,
Then silence.
Something, I don’t know, made me look up and walk towards the pond.
It was then,
Ten I saw her.
She was sitting on the rockery beside the overgrown heather,
Unaware I was watching,
Staring, utterly enthralled at the snowdrops.
I think she had never seen anything so beautiful,
But then neither had I watching her.
I could hardly dare to breathe lest my breath should give my game away.
Her delicate silvery hand stretched out to tenderly pluck a bloom.
I was unsure whether to move forward or back or just stay there.
Then in that instant,
In that very instant she saw me.
A moment transfixed in time
Lasting an eternity;
Yet in reality a split of a second.
Her eyes pierced mine
And I felt her soul and mine beat as one.
And in that very moment I knew I would never ever see her again.
It was as if she realised then, that she shouldn’t have been here.
Shouldn’t have been seen.
She gave me one last haunting glance
And with a gentle beat of her translucent wings silently faded into another realm.

The air was colder
And stiller than ever before.
A dark void was all that was left.
I walked over to the pond,
There on the ground were the snowdrops,
Strewn as she had left them
In her haste to depart.
I bent over and gently picked them up,
Caressing them against my cheek as I walked back to the house.

A lone tear dropped on to the perfect white petals.
I shut the door as I went inside,
Suddenly shivering.
Then started looking for a tiny vase.


Written 17th February 2003
‘The Keeper of Scrolls’