These days I’ve taken to be, well, less political and more creative – something that happens to me annually; winter stokes the coals of my birthing-burner like an old man poking at the open fire, sending up crackling sparks that from out of the dark set his peering, crinkled face aglow. I scratch the flint over these faceless stones, and from that comes strange tales, mystic messages. Warmed, I shimmy up to these building flames, listen to the roar in the hearth, and let myself dream.
The cold, sharp clink of metal brought down on metal – clink.
These days there is a controlled violence in my words, an accuracy that is visceral. I look forward to these moments with the muse, like one might look forward to an evening’s chat with a close friend before the fire. Nodding and smiling, turning over thoughts between two: ploughing the field.
These days I relish such moments, where I treat words with the respect they are due, select them, and place them, with care. With care, yes. This is the season when I create with care.
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