It’s blowing a hoolie

February 15, 2020

The storm’s coming in off the coast. It’s been christened Dennis by the Met Office. Wind howling round the standing stones, abundant rain across the moor and cold as the Ice-queen’s heart. There’ll be more trees down before this day is out –

Sunset In October

October 20, 2019

The air ticks – the wandering, wild strum of it
breaking through me, rattling the pebbles
like long-dried bones.

The wind whines – the banshee bawl of it,
screaming through ginnels of granite,
on the high moor.

The land shivers, pulling its coat of gorse
and heather tight round its ears,
shrugging me off.

And the earth drinks the sky.

Louise Wilford

Two creatures fly silent between the still stones;
heads back, eyes wide, hooves touching down madly, surely,
swifter than the wind or death, who hunts them,
tail twitching, nose to the earth.

Kathryn Atwood


March 16, 2019

It was a rather blustery day –

Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day
animated film from Walt Disney Productions


We’ve had the rain, enough to drown poor old Noah’s soul, and now we’ve got the wind – blustery doesn’t cover it! It’s blowing a feckin’ hooley, boys & girls!

Last night the wind was racing like a feckin’ express train through the sky. It was so strong we thought the hills would come untethered and flap free across the moor like giant vampire bats. Dustbins overturned; metal lids rattled – windows and doors rattled too; slates parted company with roofs; and a neighbour’s dog began to howl like a feckin’ banshee.

Nothing now for me to do but curl up on the sofa and watch “Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day” And wait for the storm to ease –

14th March 2019


Ten Lines

Come closer. So close I feel you,
how easily you breathe.
Imagine that I lead a life,
which consists of moments
and blows away in a moment
if the wind turns imperceptibly
when the door’s still open,
enticing you outside,
where there’s nothing but the others —
turning round and round with the wind.

Karl Krolow,
Field no. 78, Spring 2008

Be the sky.
Breathe but never count your breaths.
The wind is free,
It will dissipate the morning mists –
But remember winter is inevitable,
Cling to your dreams –
Give love,
Just love.
That is everything.

a storm brewing

The wind is rip roaring like an express train over the moor. It comes from the south-west, so not cold. Just angry. Unreasonable. It wrenches branches from the trees standing guard over the generations of buried dead in the churchyard. It shrieks in the smoky chimneys of the cottages, rattling windows and doors in their frames and filling the heads of sleeping children with unpleasant dreams of shapeless things.

And the rain. Did I mention the rain? Torrential, unceasing. It was rain like this, I’m sure, turned old Noah to shipbuilding –

The thin, high whining

June 23, 2018

Somewhere outside, faint and faraway-seeming, but gaining quickly in intensity, there came a high, thin, whistling sound, piercing, but so high one could scarcely hear it. Rather, it seemed more like a screaming heard inside the head than any outward sound, and strangely, it seemed to circle round the three of us — the bride, the bridegroom and me — and to cut us definitely off from the remainder of the party.

“Queer,” I thought. “There was no wind a moment ago, yet —”

The thin, high whining closed tighter round us, and involuntarily I put my hands to my ears to shut out the intolerable sharpness of it, when with a sudden crash the painted window just above the altar burst as though a missile struck it, and through the ragged aperture came drifting a billowing yellow haze — a cloud of saffron dust, it seemed to me — which hovered momentarily above the unveiled cross upon the altar, then dissipated slowly, like steam evaporating in winter air.

Seabury Quinn
The Devil’s Bride
Magazine of Horror, March 1969


6th June 6

Last night’s raging gales and watery darkness, collapsed this morning into wind-muscled day. High skies with racing clouds like huge white fortresses above the flowered lanes and tall church-tower…

Reasons to be cheerful part thirty-two: In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro (I’ve sought tranquility in everything, but found it nowhere except in a corner with a book).

Hold a hand up to your cheek, feel the slanting rain on your skin, soaking your hair, while you, drowning, floundering like a big black bird, scream ‘Feck, feck, feck it’ at the uncaring elements.

Such is life in the wilds.

Aware of time passing. Each new day is a day nearer death. This house over time will faded, its windows take on a new clarity, the glass imprinted on the very air. The stairs will become shadows. Perhaps as a ghost I’ll return, pass through a door that is no longer there?

Diary 7th / 8th March

Such irregular days filled with tempestuous winds. Hear it whistling in the chimney, day and night. Gusting. Carrying the dead, desiccated heads of last year’s geraniums over the lawn. Dustbin lids rattle and crash. And rubbish is scattered. It roars like an express train overhead as it flaps through the hills from the coast…

And the rain – torrential at times! Threatening a veritable Noah’s flood. We should be building an ark, gathering animals two by two. Then, afloat after 150 days, the waters will recede and we’ll find ourselves together on Ararat.

Truly, we are experiencing weather of biblical proportions!

Oh, summer when will you return…?


Then: Paris, at age seventeen: a necropolis of a city; a place of the dead, stinking of traffic fumes, freshly baked bread, and smouldering Gauloises cigarettes. A city imbued with odd shadows and strange intrusions of darkness that confused and misled the unwary. It tasted of pernod and water and Bouillabaisse and bitter black coffee.

The women, you’ll recall, tasted of salt and sweat, acrid beneath a casual dab of perfume – that perfume always gardenia on the tarts: perhaps sex workers clubbed together and purchased in bulk for a discount…?

But the whores like the city were all about pretend. Smelling of gardenia around the tits, but of Roquefort between the legs.

It was a city of rising and falling, of bright lights and darkness. The easy voluptuous rhythm of sex, and the staccato barking of car horns. French men drove with their hands on their horns, whispering their our Fathers and their hail Marys until journeys end. Jazz clubs at night, then a trip to one of the many ethnic joints for couscous “à la française”.

And writing, writing, writing until your hands cramped and you were good for nothing – not even a quick wank!

Paris, a place of occult phenomena, of conflicting absurdities. A city filled with monstrous revenants, a catastrophe…but what the hell, the Metro was cheap as chips!

In a world smitten with insanity we still have Paris and its Metro! I felt like Orpheus underground in search of my true Eurydice on the glorious Paris Metro.

Remember? Wandering the museums and galleries, day in day out, like one in a narcotic daze. Parallel worlds could be accessed there. You could easily become lost. I believe you did become lost…?

And, oh, how that place could wound. That awful city, headlong full of the undead. Everything was an exaggeration. Already lonely, it painted your imagination with its horrors, its monstrousness, filling your soul with such darkness that you wished everything to end –

But then, come the morning, your ordeal, your self-imposed exile would begin over. Balance returned, however temporarily. You’d go out into the city armed with fresh hope. Experience again the desire to grow and to touch the moon from this terrible place…

Faster than running

May 18, 2015


about a band of silver sunlight out at sea
or the scent of resin in a pine wood?
What is there to say about snow-heads of bog cotton
on millstone grit moors?
When the last finger of bladderwrack
has rotted from the shore line
speak only of departures and horizons,
the running with dry sand in whorls of smoke
driven by wind across the bay
faster than running.