Friday, 19 August 2011

Moorland stories - a few words

Snippets of stories from various workshops over the last few weeks

Foxhole Cave, High Wheeldon

The lair of the fox was dark, deep and hidden from view of man,
But his smell was sniffed by the dog rounding the sheep
Who crashed through the undergrowth and fell into the dark and gloomy cave

the shepherd heard its cries and found his dog

Fortunately the fox had exited by another route

Its lairs once home
To prehistoric man and bear

Peace and tranquillity
Lots of mice and good around the scavenge
Places to rest and hide
To glide through the air in the countryside
A special place for owls
Places to drink from
A home in the tree
already there

The pterodovetyl sailed on silent wings over the shallow seas in which the chrome and parkhouse reefs were forming. It scanned the waves for darting fish and occasionally dived, gannet-like, for its prey before rising like a scaly Venus to wander the waves once more, a prehistoric albatross

speculation on cardboard, tea coffee or arsenic to go with valerian infused honey, the artists create eclectic selections of ancient carnivores
fed by copious imaginations and Sheen sunshine. coming together recall an older world

Under the water,
Under the tree-roots,
Where the river runs clean over the gravel
Rushing round rocks,
Flooding over the Stepping Stones,
A hole in the bank
Holds secrets, hoards bones trawled from winter fields.
And in the shadows
Knitting, knotting those bones into cloaks,
A memory of an older world is sitting

We brought a root
and grew deadly nigthshade,
Monkshood purple, nodding death
And foxgloves, enchanted, human poisons but party delight for the Little People dressing well in Folks' Gloves for parties and cavalcades across the flowering fields.
A garden of hemlock and henbane, orris and elder
the wisdom of hazel, the venom of yew

But it was the sleepy valerian that drew in the bees

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