A Classic for Halloween....

"Men say, that in this midnight hour,The disembodied have power,To wander as it liketh them. By wizard oak and fairy stream,Thru still and solemn spaces.And by old walls and tombs, to dream. With pale, cold, mournful faces."
                                   -William Motherwell ("Midnight and Moonshine") 

 THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) (excerpts)
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, the moon was a ghostly galloon tossed over the purple moor and the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.....
     And the highwayman came riding came riding, up to the old inn-door.

 A French-cocked hat  on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin. His boots  were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle. His rapier  hilt a twinkle, under a jewelled sky.

 He whistled  a tune to the window, and who should be  waiting there, but the landlord's black eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.   

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,   

But he loved the landlord’s daughter, 

         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. 

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— 

 "Look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight, 

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” 

 She loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand 

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over. Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. 

 He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;   

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,   

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,   

A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— 

King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. 

 They  bound his daughter, to the foot of her narrow bed. 

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   

There was death at every wind. And hell at one dark window; 

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. 

 They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. 

They had bound a musket beside her! “Now, keep good watch!”  

 She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight; 

         Watch for me by moonlight; 

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! 

 She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years 

 Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! 

 She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   

For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; 

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. 

 Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 

 Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 

The highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   

Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 

         Her musket shattered the moonlight, and warned him—with her death. 

 Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. 

 Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. 

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; 

When they shot him down on the highway, 

         Down like a dog on the highway, 

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. 

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   

A highwayman comes riding— 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. 

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Photographs 2017    Excerpts from "1000 Beautiful Things 1948"

Autumn . Wow.

 "Autumn. The year's last loveliest smile. " -John Howard Bryant.

 TAWNY LIONESS by Ella Young (1867-1956) ( Irish poet)
I like the sound of the word, Autumn.  It is the really austere season.

 Everything burns into a glory of colour and disappears. The green splendour of Spring degenerates into lushness.

 The leaves are tarnished by dust, but the flaming reds and yellow, the pale gold....

 the rose colour, the splendid purple-red of these tress will  swirl with the wind.

 One splendid moment of sailing in the blueness of the sky, one moment of motion beyond anything that a leaf could dream of.

 The forests will stand bare, beautiful in bareness, against the sky.

 They will not be dead, they will not be even asleep heavily.

 They will be dreaming of springtime, furtively pushing buds into symmetry.

 Steadying the sap for the riot of Spring. 

 The earth burns with a colour of orange, with the colour of red, burns with a purple blackness.

 Shows its ribs  of stone, coloured, blanched carved into fantasy.

 Its trees branch out with a delicate precision. Its cypress trees spring like the flame.

 I love those cypress trees. In them the very passion of the earth springs upward.

 Lifting itself with a song. This country is a lioness, tawny, alert, passionate, beautiful....

(Spencer lies on the mat Smokey used to sit on)

"Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons." -John Bishop

 Photographs 2017

Smokey.....

"What greater gift than the love of a cat...." -Charles Dickens
                                                       Smokey from the hill  Oct 26-2017

 Smokey ( and his brother Spencer) came knocking at the back door about 6 years ago. Just like neighbourhood children do when they want to say hello. I think it was 6 years. Maybe 5? Maybe 7.....the years kind of meld into each other.From then on  they came knocking every day. Just about. "Hello, are you in there??? Helllllo". 

"I'm HERE!"

 This morning Smokey was once again at the back door. (Spencer always comes later in the day.) Early bird, Smokey.In the wee dark hours of the morning, when not even the Stellar Jays were out, Smokey would be there. Staring through the glass door.  He always made that Maaaaaaaaaa sound. That meant, come out and play.

 Each morning  Smokey  watched as I mucked about in the mud, setting out peanuts and seeds for the Jays. I always stroked his  sleek grey coat and told him he was gorgeous. I told him that every day. He would beam. Well, I thought he was beaming....

 Then off he would toddle  to explore his world.....just like he did today.

 "The smallest feline is a masterpiece." -Leonardo DaVinci

 Not my cat, of course.  The neighbours' cat.From the hill.  But he and his brother, Spencer, liked to visit. Sometimes they would stay all day. Snooze in the grass. Charge up the trees.Charge down the trees. Catch birds. Catch snakes. I was always running after Smokey, especially, to take the snakes and birds away if I could. He loved to take garter snakes home to his people on the hill.

 Smokey loved to squoosh himself beside  the seed pan, where  birds would gather. Flying snacks for Smokey.Yum.

  I swear that sometimes I would catch them playing hide and seek.

 In the winter. In the snow, I would find Smokey waiting patiently on the back door step.Spencer did not like getting his paws wet. He rarely came down from their home-on-the-hill when it snowed.  It was usually Smokey batting away at snowflakes. Making snow angels in the frost and snow.His dark coat turning white. He loved every minute of it.

 And every day, waiting to say hello. At the start of the day. Or the end of the day. Sometimes in between. "Hello, Smokey " I would say. "How are you today?" He would beam.

 He just liked to visit. 

 Or HANG  around. Swaying his paws in the breeze.

 Then he would come back to the door and stare in. And I would go outside and spend a moment with him. And he would beam some more.

 Winter after winter came and went. He was not afraid of the snow. He would jump and pounce. And dance and dance. He loved to dance. To be silly. To have fun. Pure joy.

 "I love cats and little by little they become a home's visible soul."
                                   -Jean Cocteau

  Smokey died today. Lying in the sun at his own house on the hill. Died of  a heart condition, it is believed. Something that we knew he  had. Some people will say" Ah well, it's just a cat."  Just a cat......if only.

 Oh yes he WAS JUST a cat! Just a funny little being who  just could not contain himself. Who liked to climb up high!Who was soooo people oriented that he just HAD to say hello. Just a cat......yes he was a character. He had a huge heart, a hysterical, goofy  personality that we enjoyed every time he was here. He loved his life, and we loved seeing him live it. Oh yes. He was definitely JUST a cat... The entire neighbourhood will miss him. 
    And I will be looking for him in the  mornings, when the day is early and dark. I will miss him most then........I will miss him beaming at me and saying "hello."

                              "Cats choose us......." -Kristan Cast

Photographs 2017