Fredcraft

Evenfall. These dead days climax not at sunset, but following it. At the moment where the sun hits the horizon, Mere whispers of light leaking out over the distant hills The night is alive But the day is not quite dead Here, the two exist together. Evenfall. So it was with you. The sun-time of your days, divinity Made manifest amongst the trees of your home Winter; frost covered glades: the dead days. The world is empty. By night, the emptiness forgotten. So it is that evenfall, carrying the bliss of ignorance But the testament of the day gone by. Reflection.  Odd illumination, the glow Of the past But the promise of the fut

The Red Ox. It is easy to get lost in London. Amongst the concrete mazes, insignificance becomes both inevitable and involuntary, and so it is that often sinister and unexplainable happenings sometimes occur and go un-noticed by the masses. It is a place where it is almost impossible to resist sinking into oneself, not by choice, but by necessity; self-preservation becomes paramount, the fear spread by violence and spiteful whispers forcing strangers to stare at the pavement as they pass one another. Few risk unknown interaction, and fewer still risk confrontation. And thus, when Edward Cole found himself in the twisting catacombs that make

The brush sweeps across the canvas And across his life A deadly nib coats a scene in blood red acrylic The page is scarred Night falls quickly, the piece complete Your father stares cheerfully back at you From within the frame Weeks pass. The sun rises and falls, as does the moon. Crows, in their foresight, cry mournfully The phone rings It's your brother. "Dad is dead". He was old, yes. A good life, yes. Tragedy within the family. He stares, smiling, from across the room. After the funeral, your best friend sits beside you. Finding comfort in creation You outline a life In the shades making up your father's still smiling