"I like to paint and write the occasional poem." 

Ellie Goulding 'Your Song'

The Fishermen

The water laps against the concrete wharf,
 mooring lines creaking and light plastic drums and wooden hulls;
 painting the air; with their dull rhythmic thudding. 

Seaborne birds fill the sky, with begging cries, 
and tar stained nets draped across wooden huts 
like webs drying in the sun.

The seaweed gathers on the wall where the tide drains low, 
and anglers’ lines hang like silver threads, 
waiting patiently for the catch.

The jaunty whistle of an aged mariner, 
working on a scrubbed deck, 
His roughened skin carved by the salted wind and spray 
and reddened cheeks licked as a lash across his face.


Stephen Martin [c]

---

Big Brother

Photo Slide show

A Finch on the end of a branch...

In the park-


The sky is a deep azure blue, 
With fluffy white clouds like cotton candy; 
In every imaginable image wafting silently by,
I lay on a bed of green summer grasses, stained argent;
With wild flowers and buzzing joyful insects,
Wondering, as I did, the reason?


My brow cools with the gentlest of breezes,
The drone of a plane in the farthest distance,
Birds relaying their song in the treetops; as the
Branches creak and sway rhythmically,
Pondering in that hypnotic place, the meaning?


That savage demand, but a whisper, 
Painfully issued just moments past, 
A forgotten man, amidst the commotion, 
These memories, ebbing away fast
    Like leaves in the autumn breeze.
 
The laughter of children nearby...
Mothers gossiping, babies crying; for attention-
no doubt! The faintest hint of savoury sausage-
and onion; carried on the wind...My stomach
Not paying attention, for once!


That noise in the distance: a Banshee-like wail!
Disturbing my peace and solitude, a siren perhaps?
Loud voices, in startled unison; buzz nearby.
That siren seemed closer, more urgent more…final.


I forgot the commotion; noticing instead,
A finch on the end of a branch looking down at me,
A small insect struggling for freedom within its beak,
That nagging question about life came back,
Haunting me as I lay alone, on the damp cold ground…


Strange warmth invades my chilled self, as I lay prone
Amongst the stems of stained grass, the sounds of nature
Fading, even the babble of people nearby seemed to
Die down, so that the finch I espied could be heard
More clearly, a musical warble that fills my head 
With clear sounds and brightness, and my heart grows faint
And light within that savoury glow.


Then a sigh, Why?


Stephen Martin [c]

Gallery

Soft Rain

Fantasia

Orodruin (Mount Doom)

Tripod Walker

Misty Lake

Serafin (Eragon)

Twilight

City Of Glass

Oasis

The lonely mountain

The Riverbank

Surf's Up

2001 A Space Odyssey

Lander

Shades Of Blue