Monday, 6 May 2013


(Ultima Ratio Regum)

Leaping from a clay slope knobbled by sheep tracks and slips, ledges tufted with grass, into a deep murky green water hole. Moments to salute before curling up into a cannonball. Hit the surface and pass though the first tepid layer where it's still light before meeting the frore current moving below. Down and down until jolted to the river-floor  Wait there wondering how deep and think about the eels. Had they been frightened away by the rock throwing ceremony? Then spring open pushing against the curdled silt and misshapen river stones. They grit against each other and silently slip away to rest. Up and up the tepid layer is now, for a moment, warm when bursting, rescued, into the wind.


  1. have y'thought much of writing poetry, Dux? This, and in particular the last three sentences, is full of really lovely sensory imagery (and I rather like the line about eels).

    rearrange the line-structure a little of the last three and you'd pretty much have free verse (even if Stephen Fry disapproves. eh, what does he know).

  2. He's such a toff.

    You're too kind.

    Hemingway (that great fool*) wrote a short story about a man trying to pass through his insomnia by recounting and cataloging (among other things) every river he went fishing along as a boy.
    Thinking of jumping into a river helped me fall asleep last night.

    *The Newsroom Season 1 final episode.