The game's afoot... After a couple of stints trying out new material at Paul Sockett's excellent 'Outspoken' event in Clitheroe (http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=210420760961) and Lynnette Shaw McKone's 'Exposure' launch in Carlisle (http://storytellerbard.wordpress.com/), the writing of Book 3 is now underway.
You can read a sample of this work-in-progress below, and, as usual, comments and suggestions are welcomed: more now than ever, in fact, as they may end up directly influencing the outcome of the next book!
'In Memory of Real Trees', meanwhile, has now been out for a few months, and has been getting some great feedback, most recently with a great write-up in 'Lancashire Life' Magazine.
If you'd like to purchase a copy of the book, or find out about postage discounts, please email me here.
Alternatively, it's still available at Amazon, where you can also read a couple of user reviews: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memory-Real-Trees-Mark-Charlesworth/dp/1445205335/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272031864&sr=1-1
Thanks, as ever, for your continued support!
All the best,
Mark
***
Through a Glass Darkly
On an island out of time,
a minute hand ticks wearily to midnight,
and, still, a heathaze blurs our sight.
A crescent of luminescent white
pricks a terracotta sky:
ink swirling in the riverbed,
the struggle of weather fronts
brought down to ground level,
pressing close against glistening skin
and half-intoxicated heads.
The landscape is a delirious spectacle,
seen through a glass darkly
in thirsty paralysis,
like shriveled, parched fruit,
a spectre of death
beautiful on the outside nonetheless:
red apple skin shimmering with raindrops.
Treacherous waters restlessly chop,
devouring cobble, brick and stone,
to rob wilting orchards of prosperous crops,
eroding the shells of once-stately homes.
We are alone in a crumbling paradise,
watching for storms and picking off parasites,
invisible and isolated by the tides,
somehow invincible, feeling strangely alive.
And I wonder to myself,
staring down at a skyline of wavering steeples,
why it is I might appear
so dolorous and dreary,
world-weary and wistful,
pensive, plaintive and not a bit peaceful.
Well, the thing about sad is,
it's happy for deep people.
