Second Movement: The Highest. by Kenart
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Second Movement: The Highest. by 


Ben Nevis, Scotland


The Romance Music from The Witchfinder General. A Confounded Letter.
As nightime therapy then, I listed all the happenings I could not explain. Could not account for in the dreadful, dreary, daily, dumb. Fearful scars across a manic mystery country of my own making.

First across the Camel river then to Lyonesse; to hear the bells under the waves and finding in ivy, hidden Mesopotamian mystery mazes on a rocky valley, carved, cliff wall. A witch body in an old witched blacked stone museum. A big pig, ghost pig, frightening a boy, in Thomas Hardy’s cold boarded, greenwood church. An Adder and a sign Saint under a stone in a river, ending through a fiord. The Once and Future King swimming forever under Tintagel’s sea waterfalls. The light of my stone megalith mystery landscape. The one they call paralis in paradise. Before the moor of excellent dreams.

North Grandfather coming into sleep and asking to be aright, all light with his fob and blue Saint golden watch hanging bright.

Othneil, Lion of God, my Norman ancestor uncle, haunting me uncertainly with the sad smell of his pipe tobacco in rooms long emptied of memories. The first time I am in Ireland when he dies, in old England and I did not know.

A hand touches mine in the Irish peat dark from nowhere. It plays and strokes calmly and then unaccountably leaves. Leaving flowers and the smell of pipe tobacco.

A sister asleep with eyes closed at the same time across the widest sea, as Ireland, yet reading aloud and turning pages in an illustrated book..

The Synchronizing of timeless effect and million to one chances happening every tattled tale time I looked around, in and under, in remorseless fogged fear.

Finding this music only when I stopped listening and looking in the hiding place of plain sight.

A caged cap cavalryman in a Priest hole chimney behind the horsehair and plaster of a friend and ancient farm. The walk across a wooden, yet carpeted floor with spurs a jingle. With his long straight pistol and long straight fluted sword all bright, all blood, all right.

The monster sound crashing in the eldrich dark wood of illicit listless love with the girl that ran and ran and ran along the old railway into another woman. The place and line of decapitated Captains of failed industry suicide.

All these, still many more, were list listed in the black books of before bright pagan burning, as always. As Sunshine therapy then. Did it work? Oh yes and strangely enough, no.

© 2009 Ken Simm.

I am Et in Arcadia Ego.

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Comments

  • cherylc1
    cherylc1about 5 years ago

    stunning capture!

  • Many thanks my good friend.

    – Kenart

  • velveteagle
    velveteagleabout 5 years ago

    Not only is this image show so much majestic power.. But your words flow colors too Ken.. Bravo..
    Chuck..

  • Thank you for looking and reading Chuck.

    – Kenart

  • PrairieRose
    PrairieRoseabout 5 years ago

    Hi Ken,
    you’re going to have to publish a book for just this series alone!!
    Magnificent images you are posting…………..
    sincerely, Rosie xoxoxo

  • Now there is an idea. Thanks for all these lovely comments Rosie.

    – Kenart

  • frogster
    frogsterabout 5 years ago

    Very cool image Ken

  • Many thanks Larry.

    – Kenart

  • Josie Jackson
    Josie Jacksonabout 5 years ago

    Outstanding again Ken, and such a talent also at writing, very beautiful words.

  • Trying to bring both together and say similar things. Thanks so much Josie.

    – Kenart

  • Sean Farragher
    Sean Farragherabout 5 years ago

    gorgeous

  • Glad you like it Sean

    – Kenart

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