wood, stone, leaves, bone

Nettle burns. Blistered fingers from swinging sickle and scythe. Cutting through overgrown paths in the wood-lay rough. Maintaining a walkable loop round garden, meadow, forest. Green and great spotted woodpeckers shrilling alarm calls. Grey down fledglings taking wing.

▽ | #journal

Regions as layers for deep time storage /

Perform a regional invocation to draw something up from the localised past / Place your clay offerings among the hawthorn leaves on the slopes of the greenbelt / Bury your wooden effigies beneath loose Earth in a circle of small bones — the remains of a magpie or treecreeper /

From your backpack pull the jar of hair and iron nails, withered red berries / Desiccated leechwort bound with twine / Little pockets of skin folded and sown like leather /

With surgical precision open the veins etched across the territory and the spectra of history oozes through /

The land spits up thick liquid time / Spectral phosphors glow over marshland at night / Estuary, tributary, mudflat / Salt dry skin peels from bone /

This is anxiety about worn places /

Burning like static off pirate radio /

(Excerpt. The Gradual Mutation of The Territory, 2013).

▽ | #memoradelia

▽ | #analog

Passing piled stones the road reveals some crumbled cottage. Tarred wood-tile rooftop held by post-and-beam now worn and gutted. Upturned pans and churns and kitchen clutter. A dry clump of pond upon the outmost edge.

Fields fret beneath a windmills slowing turn.

▽ | #relic

The forest breaking to clear-cut fields of brushy deschampsia, felled stumps, straight machine sown lines of saplings. Farmstead foundations mobbed all sickly green and shooting red with sporophyte.

▽ | #journal #traces

In the attic under the eaves. Writing desk tucked between collar beam and window. I feed a sheet into my Olivetti Roma, manufactured in the 1980s by Olivetti Do Brasil. A travel typewriter with smooth keys, 13pt micro elite typeface, grey case with eye-catching red trim. A detail that recalls the best known works by the architect Lina Bo Bardi.

In a cafe across the North and Baltic sea's, a chronically ill poet reading from a collection of body horrors offers the advice: “Write what you know”.

I check the line spacing, the page margins,

Lock the paper in place.

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Squelching through stodgy slake grounds after tipping rains. The mountain watered down to the root. Muddy knees protesting as I work to weed the kitchen garden beds. Ripening crops smothered in couch grass, chickweed, cleavers.

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Lungs drought baked draw dry breaths of dust. Smothered in blankets, circled in chalk, you are a consecrated granuloma splintered deep in heart and home. A desiccated mass of foreign body trauma.

▽ | #relic

Thundercracks. A Summer drencher dousing the heatwave. Racing outside to tie up broad bean plants. The mountain dark beneath a pack-cloud sky. A rawky murk.

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Hemiparasitic yellow rattle tapping into coarse perennials, leeching nutrients, suppressing grassy matts and skirts. A self-seeding weave of wildflowers where the wood rise breaks, common harebell, heath spotted orchid, wood cranesbill. Abandoned orchard belts, reclaimed from the forest, leafing anew. Splits of native / non-native planting to increase biodiversity, habitat support, site resilience.

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