In these last days of summer…

In these last days of summer…

I feel the chill breath of autumn on my skin

the sun rises cold in a clear sky

and I watch each day end

with sadness in my heart

Someone wrote in a comment recently about the deep sadness she feels every day as a survivor of childhood abuse.  I also feel a similar deep sadness that is always with me.  Her comment made me think about how I live with my sadness.  This art journal post is the result but so, I think, is my whole blog.  My sadness fills every page and post.  It looks through the lens of my camera, it powers my pen when I write and it guides my hand through every creation.  It pours into every creative thing I do.  It is maybe like the image of the old journal that I use for these pages.  Its age and experience is there in its stained, yellowing pages that colour everything created on them.  It has lost the clean whiteness that comes from something pure and newborn, it has been shaped by the life it has lived.

Although I would never have chosen the life I have been given I find profound beauty and solace in poetry and photography that I may never have experienced if I had lived a different life.  It moves me that my words and images find a place in other peoples’ hearts and that they can express something personal for each person, whatever their situation.

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Death in a graveyard

For every life I lost here
between the silent graves
for every little part of me
some evil pervert craves
for every cry and tortured scream
that cut like sharpened blades
for fear felt for a lifetime
that never ever fades
for all the years you’ve taken
apologies left unspoken
I want yours in return
I want to see you
twisted and broken
and left in hell to burn
only then, when you are gone
when no trace of you remains
may I float into a peaceful sleep
amid the downy feathered seeds
under weeping sweeping rains.

To an unknown man

to-an-unknown-man

I never knew you

but I remember your grave,

black and imposing,

reflecting the moon.

I remember the feel of

the slick black marble

cold against my skin.

I remember the bitter smell

of small dead creatures

hidden in crevices

behind broken stone statues

with angel wings.

I died on your grave

and was resurrected

as a small and insignificant ghost,

unseen.

After long years I returned

and looked down on

your benevolent faded grandeur

I wondered if you remembered me,

that small screaming child,

and if it made you sad

that your grave was a place of terror,

and I realised

that I had never had anything to fear

from the dead.

 

The flight of summer

The flight of summerThe end of summer is bittersweet.  I always end summer with regrets, I didn’t get out there and achieve all I should have.

The cool mornings bring a promise of autumn.  I love autumn, the colours, the coolness, the sky opening allowing me to breathe again, the thoughtfulness.

September also brings that start of school dread that I have never grown out of, that uneasy feeling of bad things to come but maybe that is part of the nature of autumn.  However beautiful it is a death, a preparation for winter, a brief flare of bright colours before the cold and dark close in.

This image is available to buy in a range of prints and gifts here