How the terrible drowning happened and why remains the mystery but Paul Peters had shouldered all the blame himself since that dreadful sunday and never protested or refuted constant wagging fingers claim for his twin drowning. That his father had never recovered. Neither had the tragedy been discussed nor had any attempt been made to repair the damage between the two. Paul survived but Malcolm had not. Mal so much the stronger so much the happier so much the cleverer and so much the obvious favourite extinguished. Had Paul thrust out his hand shouted warnings when being typical boys horsing around? Why had it been him that had been flung through the breaking wave towards the shoreline and safety? He relived the ghastly terror on his father’s face a nightmare over and over coupled seeing his father flailing hysterically through the surf desperately wading out attempting to rescue his gorgeous son. Whether it was a rock or fate that was the instrument and harbinger who can be sure? But from that second silence shouts alone. Neither father nor he ever mentioned it again nor comforted each other’s permanent loss. Despite trying constantly failing the knowledge became locked away tightly in an aching chest. Psychologically fathoms deep a sort of macabre Davey Jones’ locker. Muffled cries real or unreal pervaded permeated the witnesses; ever-present in the record books in the tombs archival history ancient and modern conscripted watery ghosts of Malcolm Peters Napoleon his Mother Colm Solvene his Father the Thresher rally in perpetuity whilst the songs of her love the need to love the love she sings until her dying day.

For some while now the swinging noose taken from the boughs was dangling swaying around the defunct thresher. The skeleton’s heyday was fairly ludicrous to champion or cite as the structure grew creepily grotesque. Although a nice redeeming feature was the aeolian harp impersonation performed by arrowed breezes a touching beauty mesmerising many a young courting couple when diminished to sudden lapsed embarrassed silences. That will not save coming events. The earth had rumbled and shown impatience as daylight hours grew shorter so the dewpond combed and ruffled whilst below the lapping surface a hectic frantic fury was brewing up. A frothing morass gaped.
The living organism is hers it belongs to her certain she knows what is rightfully hers. That low calling soft smile beguiles travellers in deserts to imagine a time of verdure seduces their yearning to promise to keep a suicidal pact never to indulge in bad husbandry again. Her arms beckon open palms up to those seeking companionship to lay down their weapons unacceptable justification puts aside a moral high ground. Standing willowy in the middle of no through road tall politely pushing free spirits into an order onto their correct path. She seems very simple quiet and loving. This is how it is. A mother as with each unique child mildly chided carefully guiding smoothing ruffled feathers relating wonderful stories whilst simultaneously pulling the errant sibling ever-closer ever-nearer towards verging on consecration; piety. It grew pitch black harnessed to an unbearable stillness the pin dropped a remaining fossil like leaf that had singularly endured the previous winter and the spring rush. Barking vixen rasped cut into the heavy air participating contributing in the build-up to maximum suspended animation ahead of the starter’s gun. The surprise element prompted the want to scream. The pull began the suction the swallowing digesting working in tandem for here was the light of his father’s eyes being sucked back reeled in into the earth without fight. And there was absolutely nothing that could be done to prevent the inevitable outcome. No signal was clearer no prophet more predictable for the number was called the time was up. The deal signed. The moorland became first vague and shapeless before molten surged as rollers that might crash on some godforsaken shoreline. The entire valley lit up seconds later stillness broke with mighty rage thunder ripped through the heavens a storm to wake neighbourhoods for miles continuing to circumnavigate the bowl of hills enslaved appearing unable to escape. Round and round hour after hour whilst down down down and down into the earth’s bowel sank the favourite son the celebrity. Rust to dust! Return was as if nothing had happened and no company was kept. Morning would break and it was crystal clear that the IT was sunk without trace. The family of horses approached the dewpond suspiciously nervous before suddenly soothing indulging playfully rolling and splashing in the daily ablution ritual. They moved off to roam. The bells rang out a stream of consciousness signifying the consummation the return to its origin mother a reunion nestling within a jealous womb eradicates any harbouring notion to some misguided close relationship with a gene of clayfeet.

But it’s useless to resist the onward march the restless need for change. Admittedly tangibly matter thins does commonly weaken without prejudice without attachment spurning sympathetic palpitation. So up on Bonnie Lands standing as a shell a rusting outline against each sunrise each sunset and in open plain a place visited by generations of sheep thimbleful exaltation of skylarks occasional recreational walkers the once proud monster forsaken deteriorates towards a state of utter dilapidation from an authority that once determined the fate of the rank and file. Now itself experiences the dreaded fear of being outmoded no longer possessing those often taken for granted crucial faculties aware of being treated insincerely unable to contribute to the everyday needs of now and tomorrow. Summarily discarded incapable of preventing the strangling process that will eventually mean obsolescence quickly forgotten in life’s merciless onward march towards what? What is maybe even worse being unceremoniously replaced as a matter of course by another younger version with subsequent material ease? Gone substituted from an ever-present backdrop a dominating forefront the big mover the irascible shaker the soul of any party the centre of attention or just simply useful. Occasionally the stay of execution does pop up in the guise of a photographer type becoming fascinated by the form of demise excited in the ravaged shapes or by the non-lying oxidant bittersweet decay but this engagement investment is invariably short-lived supremely egotistical. Or the local musician strolls to strolls fro before introducing visiting city colleague to what virtues in sample sounds hold. Artists are like butterflies flitting from one idea to the next never content always looking for a new way to present an age old dilemma unlike the scientist who tries to unlock the same age-old quandary but shuffles the curiosity pack of cards about just that bit more hopefully on-site. But the black hole ominously awaits. The end is conspicuously nigh. The monster knows it is an eyesore joining discarded farm machinery scrap-heaped in some corner of a foreign field providing a home for the smaller fry rodents’ feverously pre-programme rejuvenation fulfilling the bigger chain plan. As ancient Roman armies marched brainwashed sheep too go straight the final humiliating single file worn track passed ambling directly through the skeletal remnant where hitherto a fat belly grumbled onwards through repetitive seasonal harvests Might we hear of a last gasp hurrah? Death rattles.

Peters felt his father’s presence looming larger than life retreat forceful arguments seldom reared their ugly head these days no more haranguing matches outshouting illogical prejudices spewed even fewer the overbearing meddling a pathological possessiveness dimmed visibly. He cut a feebler figure succumbing to the predetermined frailties that we all agree to when signing up at conception. Faculties Genes dissipate leaving disinterested in holding any frame together anymore the law of attraction undone by a dysfunction a hidden file named disunity engaged in perpetual gravitational fallout. What remains is a spectre of a once elegant autonomy an apex of versatile creation collapsed bit by bit consigned to a confused heap aka built in the obsolescence. Here someone dies of a broken heart. So petty so easily kindled but with one token step forward everything can work out but pride paralyses such courage issuing a directive to immediately lock all exits. Countless times Peters steered his dad to face demons crying out for healing and countless opportunities were regimentally dismissed to flounder and dry up. And the only hope left is that slither of self esteem can somehow summon up enough pre-ordained energy to bow out gracefully. But if on the other hand corruption can mount a charge then this admirable vessel has not a chance in hell to aspire. Corruption welds such temptation with degrees of self-deception from most sublime innocence to most terrifying whitewash ending up as fraudulent alchemy without even the echoing pinch of beauty romance dignity. An imagined uplifting fanfare to accompany the outgoing farewell journey instead sells out transforms into an horrific classical dissonance bearing no sense of shame safeguarded. Sometimes if sheltered by anxious loved ones the story culminates allowing one last chapter to make amends characterized by love honesty transparency conceiving an overriding wish to say sorry. From the child to the parent the father to the son in how many books plays prose songs lyrics in front rooms of phone calls through last minute dashes in dreams of telepathic séances through rusty prayers to the hospital bedside each narrative covers just one irresistible matter that now is that supreme moment to forgive; forgiveness. How magnanimous traditionally the self-fulfilling prophecy an inverted parable. FORGIVENESS to make us feel better. Closure’s clarity slipping gently ambling wearily along away from the tough ride of lifelong regret.

Sound piece by guest artist Mark Peter Wright

Fast forward years toiling under different owners always updating to the latest component that drives the monster ever-more efficiently yet ever-more speedily. Circular breathing. Something has to give and nothing is forever indispensable. Look to those once great men now buried in the graveyard. Power usurped by progress. Progress usurped by questionable irresponsibility. So when alone steal a fleeting glance into handy mirrors facing up to who and what we are if only the wheel rewound spun for that second go. Alone surprised we flex long untapped muscles with thoughts that seem mildly plausible but it is only alone can we dare to live by our self-deciphered code. Certainly seems entirely reasonable. But often compromised nervous bitten lip if allowed the expression of freedom may try to compete with delusions of grandeur. Eldest twin M one with the answers knowing short cuts where to shin up the best apple trees for scrumping discovered how to climb out the bedroom window safely across the roof without being caught first on everyone’s invites linked to any amount of get-rich money schemes won over all the adults; purely engaging a winner’s smile. It’s of no consequence how many visits are made to the DIY store to shore up against winter’s onslaught cliffs collapse or how many health insurance policies you sign up to exercise moderation in all things makes common sense resistance is futile protection is found wanting out-manoeuvred when your number is called the bill has to be paid. Since that day when God sent a miracle the swings and roundabouts too numerous to mention came went came again to the machine on Bonnie Lands. The explanation this is a rogue machine born from the elemental stuff of life of its own accord chose to arrive from the bowels of the dewpond chose to interact with rawest material most primal substance. Simultaneously in Scotland embryonic industry burgeoned factories produced the prototype that would have such radical impact upon an empire upon an agricultural society that provided basic jobs for food needs in both far-flung and near-to territory. Whereas over the border the nifty invention projected hitherto unknown consequences the Bonnie Lands rogue elephant was neither brutal nor negligent. When for days in the farming year it could have lain idle it never stops calculating. The charismatic omnipotent luminous M was not a creation to unsettle but divinely generated its own script. The truly magnificent dynamic birth out from the frozen earth challenged one before and all after. Obviously the seasons were treated as a mere trifling having been itself the sum of each year so how insignificant a colossal irrelevance like a bankrupt sideshow a crowd ignores pushing their way past in their anxiety for excitement and thrills searching on the grapevine the stars for treats. Confirmation came therefore from a chosen few that the inside of the machine’s psyche offered no real clue. So it led a fantastic charmed life becoming revered for its production output and knowledge of climate. Starting on reliant days stalling on useless ones. One extreme bizarre aspect was a mammal-like ageing process manifested an internal struggle regardless of outside circumstances. Responding the wonderful worked hardened the relief sharpened spearheading goals. Never stopping never faltering always driven to more more unnecessary extravagance and loud extrovertism proving vitality without one jot of difference since day one. Smacking of pure fable that folklore sunday when villages came to stare with amazement and disbelief at its shocking dramatic arrival upon the quiet hills in the far west years before. The living breathing object still entertained centre stage but a profound event as unexplained as the threshing machine’s arrival deemed worthy enough to bestow the cherished placed thought of a population blessed. Where superstition claimed frogs cats magpies bats knives brought luck by default each waking hour few ravens added any new chapter about the machine/monster. This very charmed life kept its own counsel a secret of immaculacy without legitimate rival anywhere. That day might come although doubtful. If we knew we had an unfair advantage how could that be put to use? Being in its presence resonated spiritual to the villager that thing most wanted. In the environs spread round the machine the young frolickers cavorted the lovers’ gazes smouldered unguarded all the secrets of the fearful collected in earshot. The chance to control the very state of regeneration tempts the jealous athlete deludes the ageing beauty beckons the weakening loner. Natural Comforts. It turns heads and causes havoc. It is delusionary. It is the mirror. It is all blind faith! All bare brittle bones. That’s all there is all there will ever be prior to reincarnate. Sadly no such thing as being touched by magic. It’s not Lourdes but untrammelled worshipping festive idolizing and naive trust for this charismatic omnipotent luminous monster was bare belief was brittle love was closest to each and every bone.

Strange things happen and keep happening emotion is slow or button-controlled an addictive prevailing repeat. To stand there as was custom and watch the authority carry out their grim order with aplomb precision occasionally studying their deadpan expression left Peters feeling waves of nausea coupled with outrage. The now infamous nine were taken down removed from the scene to be tossed unceremoniously away befitting notorious dishonoured objects for criminal acts against the subjects of the empire. As if nothing out of the ordinary this blasé small band of executioners retired to some drinking hole to reward themselves celebrating a well earned day’s pay. He felt the loss of his twin acutely. How easy would it have been to thrust out his helping hand how obvious to shout instructions over through effervescent foam; re-enactment is the stuff of theatre where an audience either suspend their disbelief or become so wrapped up in drama compose a strategy to plot a way out or feel there but for the grace go I. Now he saw the key moment to mend the wounds with his father accepting that chance misjudged ended fruitless for Colm Solvene. The agony of the mourners trickled away leaving the trees lined up near the monster to continue their ever-present battle against the elements. Everything appeared through burning tears as decaying blurred motion. He felt harnessed connected by mutual upheaval now grieving uncontrollably as the living hell takes centre stage. He now vowed to make things right.

Can anyone say that executions make for good relations between the commoner and the full weight of the judicial system? Does any area in the mind’s eye of any recent controversy in city country or state feel completely at ease? Appearing are long-lasting side effects as ticks burrowing deep into the DNA of the community often a melancholy bordering on a meaninglessness lingers for epochs whilst the image of the event is printed in that very place’s ether. Not only the psychic but also ordinary folk witness the vibrating photo sometimes years later and report that something bad happened here; whether a room or spot the reaction is often an abrupt departure vowing never to return.  Remarkably tragedy often releases neither a hate nor a vendetta but a heightened sense daylight is brighter words more beautiful faces no longer paper thin but a conjured depth that replays their story with tender pathos the living pain shared. Maybe attributable to shock but multiple things crop up to trigger a belief a leap of faith that someone or something is in control extending a loving hand. The families gently deal with one another with time patience clothing an easy understanding. Absurdities in abundance anything trivial might produce a fond recollection or a snatched chuckle over the smallest cherished characteristic. Every tiny association is worth investigation dissecting nothing seems too much trouble however everyone feels utterly worn out cried out coiled up so tightly that the heart is at snapping point. Somewhere in that endless time-honoured clocked stopped space the notion arrives to act in the name of the loved one to carry on their work to live on behalf of and sacrifice your Self to the one sacrificed. Is this possible? Is this healthy? Is it what they would have wanted? Yet proselytizing any cause appears a complete waste of time an insular activity that excludes all but a chosen few resulting in futile gestures and little else.

Scottish history might well burst with proud defiance pointing out a noble land that reproduced untold fierce revolutions within and without. This nation on the back of a far-reaching enlightenment that manufactured a rich and constant stream of individual enterprise birthed a thresher through conventionally invented means effected big change too altering countless age-old methods by replacing thousands of hard-working farm labourers. A systematic orchestrated uprising stirred especially aggressive in England where in a series of letters published under a fictitious signature Captain Swing appeared calling for justice and rights inflaming workers to rebel against despotic non-caring landowners. Captain Swing believed to be the work of intellectuals became synonymous with inciting the swing riots. Hundreds of threshers were destroyed in southern and central England until finally the government stepped in to quell the biggest rebellion since the peasants’ revolt of the 14th century. Nine swing rioters swung executed with many hundreds transported to Australia in 1830.

The self-created contraption threshed its machinations freely turning increasing capacities through the ceiling. Amounts well over excess each day meant existence bestowed upon the monster a kind of number one prime position seldom experienced by any invention since the printing press rolled or rewinding to certain wheel cultures. Naturally labourers loathed the monster praying for its self-imploding seizure or sprung impotence hailing a glorious morning might thankfully unfurl to bade a non fond farewell; to limp meekly afar clearing off their hills. Instead lost jobs starvation illness infant death. Tales from many parts lifted no spirit quite the reverse picture in contrast landowners’ affairs investment repaying handsomely hand over fist minute by minute without supplementary employment production escalated to hitherto unimagined heights. The workers could not compete; not a level playing field. The general disquiet fuelled layers of clenched frustration unfelt before. Colm Solvene workman yet well educated refused passivity now activated at least to delay the inevitable fake food crisis. Furtively decided upon a course of mischief making that galvanised vast massed workers and thinkers to snowball out of his control way beyond his wildest dreams. A movement launched to disrupt all owners’ ruthless equilibrium that carried a gathering momentum akin to a cumbersome vessel when on high seas is prevented from changing direction without time repercussions; Colm’s popularity grew admired for his gravity speed of thought to act. Notoriety or acclaim became his signature depending on what path you trod. Elated by such a brave stance attracted hundreds to swarm joining Colm at the helm. Moving from one estate to another havoc and destruction raged. Firing hayricks raising farm buildings demolishing workhouses. The intent was vulgar uncompromising more letters appeared in broadsheets causing escalating unrest. When chaos has the upper hand drastic matters reside in cruel powers’ ability to somehow lure crueller men invested without scruples to carry out dire solutions; a ruthless destiny. Judicial personnel hack their way through the moral dilemma bringing about order enacting a wanton disregard. The show of strength operated with unequal measure to the ill-equipped labourers. The full weight of hypocrisy bled down on these workers penalised for their pathetic belief in the right to withstand a Parliament’s cowardice to protect the weak. In like manner as previously the all-conquering emperor finally perished wealth again lifts her vengeful sword to wield the intoxication show of might so too do peasant workers of no means and small use sink. Take on righteous institutions so reap your dispensability at your peril. No discussion no resolution just crude hangings or banishment. The show of strength duly flexed and brought the movement down to its knees. Colm with eight others swung high for their Just cause. Not content by that permanent example transportation was laid on to far-flung territories of sovereignty. A devastating crushing failure bringing a tide of swollen bereavement seized in waves of outpouring terror or misplaced religious zeal slicing through the broken heart of the countryside where it dealt its hammer blow. Meantime not a jot altered in the fields machines continued gobbling up the work produce plenty and more if the yield was high. Rich becoming richer more copies more variables of the thresher template occupied more and more vainglorious lofty spots. Please stand drink the health to those remaining all-conquering monsters. Meanwhile.

towards springtime

January
Sometimes the ricks were so high it was dangerous for the sons to be up there throwing the sheaves down or standing below on the ground keeping easily distracted youthful concentration throughout the wearisome drone accompanying an ever-present dust cloud of threshing but never far away accidents were always the next thing to upset the methodical working day. Every farm learnt harsh day lessons before evening brought a vestige of candlelight calm to settle matters lending time to tighten the procedure up so plan the tomorrow slightly more prudently.

February
The weather had such grip-like bearing on the squeezed hours of rationed light making use of every last flicker could mean the difference between choices straight-jacketed a farmer’s innate inbred ability skilfully to manoeuvre through each season pivotal in steering above the breadline tough whilst nurturing the workforce. Decisions risked had an immediate bearing on the lives of numerous close families.

March
In most cases this month heralded the gradual winding down of the thresher’s activities. Parked up for 16 weeks the major overhaul of some much-needed maintenance repairs would be undertaken; greasing oiling often renewing worn-out parts. Large standing corn bags were disappearing by cartload or being milled for private use. The pace altered feeling emptier lonelier with communication brittle pointedly hollow. A threatening wave seemed to symbolically hover and swirl over the small rural communities during this chastening month that spoke of absence without knowing why the elderly held their breath and prayed. Could there be once again yet another regeneration of everything known and relied upon? A familiar reincarnation ring of Future’s benevolence.

early summer

April

The light on the hills even far into the forgotten recesses of the valley had a magical effect on life itself. The dark chill accompanying cruel winds eased air became sweeter a heady mix ripening in playful flirtatiousness coupled with optimism. The busy new sound of ploughing and chains formed a ribbon blanket round jobs to be done. Constant chattering endless repetitious sowing of seeds. Fleetingly lambs’ snow floated did statues disappeared. Nobody paid any attention. And those soft rains. Nobody minded the gentle washing it was rejuvenating. Young eyes straining to hear each drop absorbed entry into the thirsting fecundity. Against that serenity was the all-wheeling and dealing horse auctions. Three day events where lovable rogues over from the green isle would parade a foal into the local tavern as part of their sober customary craic. It was tradition it was exactly what those march prayers were for; renewal. Fear replaced by a temporal irreverent joviality large characters that seemed impervious to news good or bad as an ice ship moving onward authoritively keeping an even keel without detour. Traditional contagious healing. When the business finished they left a cheerful taste throughout the vicinity.

May

Growing time. Growing weeding cutting shaping ploughing growing weeding cutting since life swelled in every nook exploding from every cranny. The boys doing the scuffling leading the sometime 17 hand horses up and down the drills otherwise horses go astray. Generous sun poured down as well as generous rain. Not long after dawn farmers labourers canter-like busied bringing the cattle in milking getting ready to send produce off to markets; occupied to late into eventide as were the young kids slowly turning to make the butter under the watchful sometimes reproachful farmer’s eye before turning in readiness to repeat another physical pounding.

June

High summer was full of abundant help. The first fruits arrived bursting bushes of variety like sweet currants an ever-recurring dilemma the annual hard choice between raspberries or strawberries singing dancing in the velvet night air nobody cowering whilst the riches contained within the deep land’s succulent earth gushed. So much time appeared so much more seemed to get done although a rush to keep apace with the seasonal demands the whole place seemed happier livelier somehow more open. Why even the playful young would stop stare out in the haze even dream of other places and smells exaggerated by the travelling fair folk passing through or possibly hummed in winter tales from some self-appointed raconteur considered by the powers that be a danger a corrupter as one who lures upsets the norm rocks the cart off the straight and narrow to fanciful notions into wistful byways of otherness. Straying to a momentary reverie to what else might be out there was in truth misinformed concealment a lie lacking in imagination with no substance real core or basis.

approaching autumn

July

Harvesting long underway with the different teams of horses proving either their worth or a bad buy. Feeding and watering took up important segments of the day but there are no short-cuts to be taken. Returning to same farms to undertake cutting sheaves ten eleven twelve acres per day lumping huge armfuls stacking a standing henge of stooks. On the bigger farms maybe spending a week there returning up to three times in the year. The cutting of hay barley oats all had their crisis hour but still the workers bent their backs offset by non- relenting sparkle-sharp humour making light of fixed aches and recurrent pains. The dedicated drive. The bailing its manifest result.

August

The thresher left its yard pulled by the teams to the farm. On arrival at the entrance the farmer came out greeting with payment from the previous year’s threshing after that genteel drama the procession led to the very first field where the stooks stood north to south away from the hedge to benefit from any presentable drying wind. A flattened cut made ready for the thresher to stand. The prepared huge stacks of wood dry ready to fire the instant the thresher consented. And so that noise that demon returned along with the oppressive suffocating dust coating the working gangs attached to each farm. To break the monotony during the perpetual labour that followed the daring continued time-honoured handed-down folklore gathering secretly swarming round at the best-known scrumping trees. There was the sunday outing too annually to break up the year with measured look back but rarely forward. One day stood alone just to suspend everything known anticipated claimed and accepted. And one year it did change never to return to the good old days. The mark that sent a great wedged divide plunging into an open tragic bottomless abyss.

September

Closeness to the land closeness to the sky. That pith and sign which is contained in both. A wonder of Wonder despite the jibes. This is how this is. May may have its personal planting moon shining likewise low on the horizon on early autumn nights the large harvest moon comes to add presence said to be heaven sent to help during the long hours gathering in. Three men walking ahead of the machine; one man carrying coal and wood one man with water and one with the flagon of cider watered down for those younger ones running out of cider first. The grinding regime for six to seven gathered two pitching to the machine two up on the body with one cutting the tied bands off the sheaves whilst the other managed feeding the hungry demon. The boys understood their work-task faithfully caring for their string and knife. Acres of sheathes stood outside waiting for the thresher visit. Leaving one farm one week to roll up seamlessly at the next. Taking the one day off for recovery fixing faults dealing with the always-present demand for churning butter also rightfully stopping only to partake of the Sabbath.

mid winter

October

The noise the steam boiled on unceasingly. There was a chaff sweeper in charge of keeping the area chaff-free free so the threshing barrel could gasp its quantity of air without which would result in the threshing balance being cut off. Sameness crept into all spirits only distracted by happenings cheerful or otherwise. Past flames became brighter old deeds stranger caught between a naiveté and a compulsive need to boast to lift one another from a restless murkiness. Only friendliness a kindness repaid itself giving some purpose to life in the oppressive tedium. Checking out each other’s eyes rutted into their weather-beaten thick pasted skin for any sign. Indication of that unspoken change like first frost damage arriving without warning too early. Nipped. Primed shock. A disturbed silence resumed. Fooling the warm heart to be stronger utterly loyal until their dying day.

November

The wettest months where fields became non negotiable for heavy machines and horses meant more often moving off the fields into the vast waiting barns. Threshing in the barns working amidst engulfing dust amongst legions of deadly rats. Terrier dogs had a devil of a job to keep the vermin under control. Rats were caught for fun by boys using their bare hands; a risky sport that might end in severe illness. But any waggish diversion to while away the drudgery proved popular in any given moment.

December

Dark damp days dense work pained chilblained toes torn fingers pernicious torturing from the smell of the engine rattling belching whilst spewing out its corn chaff and straw. Bailing corn stacking milling never stopping all for a pittance but necessary nourishment and security. Little happened or was much likely to happen for the horizon never grew closer nor the heavens nearer but the years stacked up inextricably additionally for each person threateningly ticking away toward their impending destiny. Miracles at Christmas as the message was remembered and forever retold promised everlasting joy yet was it deception when was anyone brought back? Where was that joy? Who knew? What chance had they? Grabbing what they could at each stage to survive. Years revolved new seasons came old seasons left. Motion without benevolence no just causes solely laws rules gravity in perpetuity. True that the untold and indescribable occurs throughout every twist and cascades around every turn with sheer grandeur imposing beauty’s rye sweetness of unconditional showers gifts upon all fragile life; no indulgence no questions deal the measure is half to full half to empty from the rewards equally shared equally taken likewise systematic penalties. All in close ragged play without a hint of poignancy sniff of sympathy. No room in the Inn. Effusively randomly breathtakingly endlessly lovingly cruel forever to quicken the heart to trick the mind that maybe just maybe life might newly rotate differently for once and work out as a well-guarded walled paradise housing harmony prosperity-lined eternal happiness.

From the summit the hills had a view mile upon mile to the east lay the Malverns local lore boasted that a giant in two strides arrives on Bonnie Lands to one small giant step leaves you on top of the Blacks mountains that run ruler-straight along the skyline avoiding escarpment to the buttresses of Hay Bluff. Peters breathed home right down in whilst flicking wimberry bushes. Plentiful clouds huge silver and thunderous queued to host a game of fractals to mimic the flat top. An almost constant wind steamed hummed and agitated accompanied by non-guessable changeable light awash with his ideas the heart responded in kind. As the fractal of self-similarity. Here the young Fhi met her Colm. Here where all the hard filthy flailing and toil sweated throughout winters’ days there were still sweet times to sheepishly exchange humbly to make sense another reason to feel alive. Colm was kind if a little forgetful spoke for all made light of unfair demands that the flailing imposed and still maintained others for their meagre wage even doubling up labour. His father the precise opposite mean offering no charity hand. Scarce was this landowner’s attention to maintain the welfare spirit of his loyal stock dismissing drudgery as their good fortune. He and Colm seldom spoke a good word after the drowning although blameless his frail mother had no energy to act peacemaker. With the advent of a miraculous machine a greedy monster that could take the place of a score of workers the mead the ale were turned to more often as a way to help numb the torment of being without work and food. So for the first time since the bad old days of the war young men left home to eke out a living rather than starve. This exodus cruelly tore apart the lives of many young lovers. Life answers cruelly regularly. Under threat from the thresher’s non-stop usurping power Colm’s decision to leave meant his place was gratefully filled. Fhi young inconsolable distraught saw neither virtue nor appreciation of Colm. He left she sang*. She sang in these hill fields as she continued to separate the corn. She lifted her voice to the sky becoming famed for her lament. Colm raged grew more certain that returning was fruitless vowed consequences; inciting leading fuelling a massive revolt from roots to places of learning to the very barn door of his upbringing.
*In the way of aural tradition these stories gave rise to hundreds of folk songs telling tragic tales of their broken heart. Sung in the fields inns and hostelries in the work houses and even finding their way into a few of the fine drawing rooms of the day.

I close my eyes to wander through those words you spoke just before the gate
As my heart grew sad whilst you held my gaze in the hands of fate
That summer morn in early May you left for to find work far away
Made me promise to keep a lover’s  watch ’til all days do fade
I love you I love you I love you I do I do
I love you I love you Colm Solvene
Then came an hour as sharp as ice when news broke out
that chilled me to the bone
For it told of a man who had sold his pride that turned him to cold stone

In all the years we’d been apart I believed in those sacred words you spoke
Now I lost my faith but grieved your loss for our bond they say then broke
I love you I love you I love you I do I do
I love you I love you Colm Solvene
I love you I love you I love you I do I do
I love you I’ll love you until my dying day!

Paul Peters skipped breakfast his favourite meal of the day that morning as he had slept through the alarm after a jumble of a vividly disturbing dream now he hoped to god that the car would start first time as he had forgotten to fill up the radiator with anti freeze! He slammed shut the newly converted barn’s front door; it had taken all his powers of persuasion to get his dad to agree to change anything on the farm. He turned the car key. Although a few were jogging most of the villagers were shuffling slowly up towards the hill in single herded lines. After the wild turbulent night it was still pretty frosty but the day was turning out better church bells were doing their Sunday outing although earlier than usual but as ever losing the odd change. Peters got out of his car thinking that it must be a pageant that the old boy had forgotten to tell him about. The smell and silence was strikingly noticeable but most alarmingly the lane was not tarmac instead a rough grass track. Also nobody seemed familiar to him and nobody paid him the least piece of attention as they filed by. He joined an ever-swelling number of what looked like old fashioned labourers and scrawny kids pushing each other forward. News spreads like wildfire when your territory is invaded by an object that had appeared overnight from nowhere. The intrigue is too amazing to ignore; no tell-tale tracks. How could a thresher so large simply so heavy needing many labourers and horses to move arrive on the high land? Yet there up there in prime position almost regal waiting for deserved worship paraded the historic crowd-puller. The human intaken gasp smacked shrill into frozen air and had the six bells pealing relented for a second the eerie silence that followed the spontaneity spoke volumes over any previous denial or private contempt.

When you know that something is about to change your life what do you do? This is a choice. Do you hold it close? Do you tell friends this is your new direction? Knowing that they will disapprove even inwardly hiss. No! Don’t you just throw yourself in despite limited resources pointing to any amount of ridiculous synchronicities! There might be potential reward in spotting such a chink of light. Yes so what that the bells toll to demonstrate their responsibility. Temporary introspection at best inspires or at worst manipulates an often pompous dialogue amongst ourselves that disappointingly becomes plainly transparent that our tracks are tediously linear following a deliberate line. For instance radical graph theory might show a multitude of co-ordinates regions of atoms vertices of edges; teeth against months rain against months harvest against months. Stages of growth never stop yet hardly alter. Outwardly the graph appears to represent our half-bodged learning process of crawling walking running slipping and falling. Yes this may take the mandatory 840 months based on survival but if alert to circumstance then through no coincidence fairest certainty fanfares that something quite out of the ordinary will occur sometime along each of our thinning lines linked to a universal equation. This raises suspicion that we somehow brought it on ourselves by doing such and such that nothing good will come of it. Superstition probably burnt many many wonderful creations ruthlessly crunched heaps of beneficial progress tossed aside simple stuff totally logical or the smallest gem snuffed out forever; snatched from minor victories. However much poured on scoff by the clever cynic or rigid traditionalist’s pronounced disdain there will be an entourage of the innocent and the enthusiasts’ partnership that unscientifically announces it is yet more God proof. The clamour that ensues is fanatic possibly ignorant but over time natural poise evolves and like water will find its own level.

Unsurprisingly our outing fades now all swore that a cold snap like this we could not remember. Livestock toughened it out badly whilst rivers were frozen rigid good only for the young escaping humdrum chores to take chances to slide from side to side bank to bank. Up on Bonnie Lands the ground taut heaved making the ice crackle spitting out hieroglyphic formations. Relentlessly winds droned recycling in the hills wild horses left their shelter behind man-made dry stone walls stamping their hooves innately at the iced bound dewpond thirstily. Through low snow tinted rolling clouds the gloom lifted with slow ominous predictions threatening another harsh day of the Lord to endure. Nothing happens on these days nothing good that is. On such occasions it is best with well-tried company inside busy preparing for better or worse expectations.
Penetrating and oozing within everything around as relentless as the gales but far beneath the dewpond came suffocating sounds resembling identifiable mixtures between constant drip-like rattling and disturbing emphysema breathing that (superimposed) draped itself over other unnatural ethereal elemental devouring. Crackled cackling stretched forming more demonic patterns. The pack of coldbloods pregnant retreated to a safe distance jittery snorting their superior senses heightened sorely tested pawing at the ground quivering ears each rotating a full 180 degrees. Impossible for any balanced vision save by a problem solving raven recovering from an argument took to sliding down a snowy bank as there was no one around to mimic or play stick games with. The ground shook convulsed groaning ice began splitting undoing geometric shapes. Excessive tremors. Hypnotic vibrating linked something perhaps diabolic that feeds off dark ridicule. Sudden large tearing as melting water slowly spilled sloshing around the dewpond parameter. Tension building kept up an aching continual pace ever more metered. The raven pushed off leaving opaque footprints. Stark. But this is not lifeless not lifeless in the slightest it is bursting motion throbbing energy from the pool surface where water bubbled geezer-like ripping across ruined ice sheets. It was plain had anybody attended or been able to report back this phenomenon that a real shape was slipping up to the surface. After monumental lurched attempts the object masters several ugly movements to finally deliver itself upright upon concrete earth leaving a massive crater shattering into smithereens a million daggers. The devil’s own ice-wrecked sculpture. The well-greased monster’s birth flexes strains before moving towards worked fields. Disturbingly weird raw fire without sentiment.
Then acute Silence neither classified nor pre-meditated descends; no breeze no bird no smell no colour no welcome just as an eye blinks when first awake taking in foreign surroundings or the seed of an impossible thought that may fruit in the future.
A dream where fever fully soaks and chills so entirely was how dream’s depth measures the pH. Where chills lowering the sleep condition causes him to suddenly start and sit upward disorientated in a madness of confusion a dread fearing for his innermost reality. Who what am I? Where? A pinching nausea erupts over his skin. Smothering the entire body. That something did happen repetitively clambering throughout reaching in to grab at an inner phobia inseparable all along means having to come face to face with the gut that past patterns will come to naught again unless interpreted precisely given a last chance to surface with determined resolve to be human and useful.

Aberystwyth west Wales. Wars ended should have meant a time of celebration in the air people feeling safe getting work agriculture in halcyon days of food production the corner turned towards robust prosperity. All over popular sunday outings sprang up year on year very much the thing to do. Some felt maybe rightly it was trickery to hide real serfdom a chance escape to lose sight of unenviable conditions. Possibly deceptions began in our case during the long drive over Welsh hills noting an ever-decreasing fast-disappearing tree line. Each year the passing traffic east became busier; pleasantly hailing with a polite enquiry as to their destination followed up by jovial banter then inevitable warnings to watch out for double-crossers of notoriety. Just insular hearsays naiveté. Each year and for one full day only we went on our Sunday outing. That was all of us; landowner his family factor workers those with wives and children in the same wagons pulled by same big horses to the same place the same shoreline on the same or nearest Sunday. Nobody asked why do we always go there come rain or shine? It was a day off it was a day to honour another passing year a nodded shudder that it had come round again it was a time to remember those not returning to this beach; a beach clean clean with air salty fresh a finger away from the health-giving town now popular with the rich eager to visit with its port and post to take the water. We feasted on food and drink from our golden valley; large cheeses rough breads to sacks of summer fruits part-hidden by yellow mounds of clotted cream. We sang played noisy stick games diced with the endless rash pebble dance tolerating the same pranksters Peter and Paul screaming at possibly the same seagulls relaying unconvincingly their absurd ridiculous yearly gossip. No one entered the cold water these years as still too present was the dark memory of the mischievous scamps of the playful twin lost. On the returning route if blessed with heavens velvety clear* the emptying flagons did their talking. Busy rumour flowing rife but usually with no reputation ruined. But tomorrow upon us all too soon visits same who’s fooling who certainly leave open wounds ’til next outing.

* Vicious storms lashed some years confirming the reputation as highest rainfall area.

Sun pours down Sun pours down
Pours down
Rain pours down Rain pours down
Pours down
Looking like a boxer’s bruised face defenceless cut eyes
Laughing like a punch-drunk man staggering under the weight of lies
Couldn’t hear the ringside bell
Didn’t see the hit come
Certainly (constantly) never rains but pours
Slaving for the farmer’s sons taunt injustice tight-lipped
Starving living hand to mouth resisting your dignity all but stripped
Cannot tie the stillness up
Doesn’t read their rights nor wrongs
Certainly brutal sun pours down
Pouring