It had looked so inviting from below,
a low domed hill, and on its crown
a circle of young trees. The climb
was undertaken willingly. We found
the circle ringed a hollow in the ground -
the sort that's not uncommon on these downs.
Best bet: a German bomber, homeward bound
had dumped the remnants of its load. If so,
one bomb had carved a saucer from the chalk.
We weren't the first to see it in those terms:
for someone at a later date, came, stood
an iron mug, a huge and rusting thing,
of purpose indeterminate, smack in
its shallow centre where a cup should go.
Its toppled since that day, stands now aslant,
bumped out of its complacency, no doubt
by the red pedal car, for ever wedged
between a whitebeam and a beech. There was
no road to that high place, which through the years
had sprouted rosebud toilets (broken: two),
a bedstead, fridge and T.V. set, a bike,
a motorcycle (minus wheels) and a
large body-building gizmo with a range
of hooks and chains more like a torturing
machine. A red stain as of blood did not
put any minds to rest. But worst of all -
it was a bigger mess, by God
than that the Heinkel left.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...