My journal of big words and pretty pictures
Goodwood Duxford tales… Papers and open books were scattered across the oak library table. Battered from years of lovers carving their initials in the surface, school kids stabbing it with frustrated pencils and pens, and boot heels scraping off varnish during long naps, its patina was still rich and deep. Goodwood Duxford and Frankie Harp … Continue reading A view of heaven
Goodwood Duxford tales... The boy sat in a pool of quiet light, high on a hill surrounded by small, white granite headstones. His back against the rough bark of an old-growth pine, he closed his eyes and listened to the wind rustling through the trees. As the last rays of the sun spread out … Continue reading Quiet light
Goodwood Duxford tales... Goodwood Duxford lived alone in the caretaker’s cabin that was tucked into the eastern corner of Gramberly Cemetery, the oldest graveyard in Pepperidge township. A blanket of ivy covered the face of the house, making it look like it was made entirely of green leaves. During the day, Goody crisscrossed the … Continue reading Gramberly ghosts
“Are you going to leave that there?” “No, I'll take it down, just like all the rest of the flags left here.” “They’ll just put it back again.” “I know, but the cemetery is only decorated a couple of times a year, I can keep up with that.” I found the gravesite while researching a … Continue reading Boy soldier
I find my muse in a garden, not of flowers, but of marble and wrought iron. There is peace among the stones, a quiet comfort being surrounded by angels and saints.
It isn’t for purely aesthetic reasons that cold iron is used to adorn funeral plots. Red as rust, blood has the taste and tang of hematite, the life force of earth. Scrolls of wrought iron circle family plots, and are forged into intricate gates and mausoleum entries. Folklore spins tales of iron crosses, and fleur-de-lis being … Continue reading From little acorns
Thin spiral notebook 