Through a Glass Darkly

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.