for Freya- a lullaby

I wrote this the same time as drawing this sketch
when my little girl was new to the world

Just a tiny ripple
on an ocean vast and wide,
Barely even noticed
by the overwhelming tide.
Who knows what far-flung places
this little wave will reach,
Majestic, icy wastelands
or some warm exotic beach.

Just a little flutter,
a gentle summer breeze,
The lightest, freshest whisper
softly stirring in the trees,
brushing past the butterflies
and lifting up their wings
Shimmering on cobwebs
like tiny guitar strings.

Just a ray of sunshine
coaxing flowers into bloom,
subtly and silently
dispelling shady gloom.
Charming us, and teasing out
a smile from every face
Warming all she touches
with her innocent embrace.

She's just my little Princess,
not even two days old.
Like putty in her tiny fist,
my heart is hers to mould.
Already she has conquered me
and brought me to my knees
my ripple on the ocean
my warming summer breeze

daddy 16/7/08

There's a spot along the path I sometimes walk that is like no other.
A few yards away is a rustic bench seat, and a wide break in the hedge,offering a delightful view across the river to a lush, flat meadow, fringed with tree-covered hills.
Any passer-by who might happen along this way would more than likely sit here to rest.
But my spot,as I said, is a few yards away from here,
where the roar of the restless river is muffled by the tree line.
The bank on the other side of the track is high and rocky,
festooned with moss and ferns
And the whole scene is overshadowed by the huge bulk of ancient beech and oak trees,
precariously clinging to the precipice.

Now,in spring,
Improbably vivid acidic green shoots force skywards through the musty skeletons of last years leaves
And porcelain white fungi gleam translucent on parchment-dry bark.

In summer
It is a cool oasis of dappled shade,
Where spiralling clusters of lace-winged insects
Swirl in the hazy shafts
of filtered sunshine.

Autumn unfolds
with a trickle of bright, crisp orange and ochre leaves
cascading from the overhanging branches
Casting a golden pallor over the whole stage
Crunching satisfyingly under foot.

When winter descends
A cathedral of towering silhouettes,
tormented by the wind,
scratch and claw against angry, slate grey skies

Badgers live here
tunnelling deep into the earthy bank.
There are at least five visible entrances
Some between tree roots
Some amongst the tangled brambles
All announced by a shining plateau of dark umber earth
Polished smooth by generations of nocturnal comings and goings.

But there's more

For here
in this dell
just around the corner from plain sight

there are faeries

Freya

My Inspiration and motivation.

This little girl, pictured here over a year ago

Makes sense of all I do.

Since meeting and getting engaged to Emily

and then being blessed with Freya

I feel creative and alive again.

Without my girls

I am nothing

This is a piece I wrote about my oldest friend, Doug Fitch.

A true creative genius and invaluable partner in crime...

It is true of many talented people I think

find his blog on my links

Shackled by self-doubt, but aching to create

He is besieged by a manic euphoric desperation.

Left raw from the endless grappling with his demons and muses

He is exquisitely, agonisingly sensitive

And every subtle nuance of atmosphere

Becomes a dazzling kaleidoscope of intense hues.

Be gentle with him

Forgive him

He is an artist

And by his hand

even the most mean-spirited among us

can be bewitched and enriched

And through his eyes

we can glimpse eternity.

Andrew Grundon

18/11/09

Yorik

This boy will be my first puppet, if I can find the time

When I abandon the pursuit of excellence

In favour of quick riches

I become neither rich

nor excellent

Some ideas

for puppet heads

sometime in the future