The Cryosleep Chapel

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum, 

Beyond the hull, the silent quasars bloom. 

The android priest recites forgotten psalms 

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum. 

Beyond the hull, the silent quasars bloom,

Their violet light bends through the fractured dome.

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum,

While orphaned satellites drift far from home.

Their violet light bends through the fractured dome,

A pilot dreams in languages of code.

While orphaned satellites drift far from home,

The ship remembers every soul it stowed.

A pilot dreams in languages of code,

The android priest recites forgotten psalms.

The ship remembers every soul it stowed

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum.

A Lifetime Of Tides

When I was once young, young and free

The tide already old, tide and the sea

I carved my name on coastal stones

Compacted millennia of ancient bones

The tide rise today is not the same

The ebb flow tomorrow, different again

The tide drifts away, a whispering sigh, 

And the tide returns when the moon is high 

A callow youth, footprints at the sand

Sea salt breezes that kiss the land

Moonrise silver over Pan Haven Bay,

Beckoned waters, dance and spray.

A castle shadow, walls worn with years, 

A warrior, an Odin of the lunar spheres

Who the moon pulls with an invisible thread,

That holds the memories of the sleeping dead.

A draft of eider wings come by

Past the white cliff house on high

Gulls wheel above where breakers gleam,

Fishermen follow, darling dreams.

The tide is a song for ever more

That kisses the rocks upon the shore.

Curlews cry out at the wind-swept sand, 

Their voices entwined with nature's hand. 

At mid tide like midlife, like silver and grey

Those dreams that were written are fading away

A long rocky headlands, salt breezes roam,

Wandering seabirds, calling them home.

But tomorrow’s tide is at oh four twenty-three,

Way too early for a dying man to see.

A final tide plays its age old tricks

At the last knockings of twenty twenty-six

Fallen Twins

They lay side by side. Together probably forever. Emblems and sigils adorned the place. Steel from the bygone age glistened beneath the weak paltry sun.

When they were young, optimism was the all. Yet it was also a well understood obsequious truth that the future was decaying as quick as it was being written. They rode the wave of that rampant decay. Hip priests of the coming dawn ready to lead. Ready to conquer. And they reached far. They held an influence. They fired the torch. 

Of the two, one was called Clarity, the other persisted, unnamed. They started from nothing, dust and spittle underfoot. They rode armoured, through the seven ages of man, gaining wisdom, discarding guilt. Eventually they came to the mountain, they ascended as though it were ordained. They stared to the coast as though it were the simple step. They sucked the flowers, chewed on petals and pollen. From the sea, they sifted the salt and from the soil they counterweighted the coal. The world for them became a budded place. 

But for all else, you and me, light fell from the sky, seed lay barren. Oh yay, we cried. No more. Mortem Tyrannis. And so, they fell.

The Journey From Here To Be

Sometime when, in the pale morning light, Hamlet took Ophelia by the hand. He looked deep into her light blue eyes and spoke thus. 

“I am no longer indifferent honest, we shall take ourselves beyond the river to the diligent sea. Thus, shall we go, lest we spend too long among the dead?”

He dressed her for a journey to the day. Hand by hand they slipped past guarded doors of Elsinore. As they moved through the fields with ardent life to left and right Ophelia turned to him and smiled.

“There is rosemary, for remembrance. Pray you, Hamlet, remember. Oh, and these. These are a wild pansy. They are for thoughts. Think this of me, my love, that I am the blossoming flower”

“Aye, thou ist my deep red tulip!”

They walked on, the burdens of state close forgotten. Abreast of a hill, a wearied traveller advised them of the nearing ocean.

“There,” he said, “is the sea. Beyond that sea, who knows what kingdom waits?”

Hamlet looked at Ophelia. No ghost behind his eyes, no crown, no poisoned cup, no grave waiting. And Ophelia, gathering the wild pansies to her breast, answered,

“To be, Hamlet. Simply to be.”

From there they continued towards the lapping waters. Behind them Elsinore grew smaller in the remembering.

PPPI Gets A Case

He pulled the beret from the hook and fashioned it on his head. Years of wear caused it to fall into the position that it always had. On shutting the front door behind him, he saw his neighbour opening his. Home from the Night Shift. A curt nod echoed between them. They were separated by more than walls. He let his chair free wheel down the ramp before engaging the electric motor. Another nod, this time from the bus driver, his relationship with the bus driver was way better than that with his neighbour. "Hello", he said. It was a mere twenty minute journey into the town centre. He used the time wisely, to do absolutely nothing.

By the time he had reached the office, he had cleared his mind ready to face the coming challenges. He rolled the chair through the widened entrance way. Lights came on automatically. A few moments later, his assistant rolled her way through the door. They decided that tea was the best thing. As they sipped, the Postie appeared with a small bundle. The Postie was an inveterate source of mostly local information, but not today. After tea they sorted the post into three piles; yes, no and oh no. Today the yes pile was the smallest pile. The first two envelopes from the pile turned out to be just general enquiries but the third...

The third was a largest stiff brown envelope. "Bung" said Valerie. "Well, it would pay your wages." said Peter hopefully as he tipped the contents onto the table. There were several sheets of paper two small Ziploc bags and a green labelled key."Okay!" they echoed. On the first sheet of paper was written.

'INVESTIGATE!'

The best way to get a PP philosophical investigation initiated was to shout a lot or feeling that write down an instruction in strong, black capital letters. Peter and his assistant Mary smiled broadly at each other, spread all the papers out and then said almost simultaneously, "We need to call Paul".

The Road To

Peter Plumb became a wheelchair user at the age of 10. A tragic accident, an RTA in officialese. That's what they wrote on his hospital records. He was the passenger, mum and dad in the front seats had died in the ensuing fire. A passing driver had pulled Peter clear. Peter remembered nothing of this. When he came around from the induced coma a couple of weeks later his life had changed.

 

After several further weeks of recovery Peter started to notice the differences. Small at first, he realised that somethings he had previously found difficult were now easy. Well, initially at least, easier. When he returned to school, he suddenly found that subjects that were previously baffling had become straightforward, subjects that he already had a grasp of became staggeringly simple. 

 

Despite his wheelchair complications within two years, he had been moved to a specialist school and within another year he had started a degree in Mathematics and Philosophy and then moved almost seamlessly onto his PhD.

 

Now at the age of almost 19 he sat in his own office, a new office, with PP Philosophical Investigations etched boldly into the door glass. He waits his first client. It has been a long quiet morning and now as he is tucking into a rich bowl of sardine salad, into the office walks a woman. A young woman of indeterminant origins, and without preamble asks in an accented voice, "Of course, you do investigate road traffic accidents?"

The Weevil Eaters

The little people lived in the bole of a tree. Their home is festooned with artifacts taken from everyone within striking distance. The little people have a god, he is called O’Dan. They stole him from the big people. They keep him chained high in their tree. Whenever things are bad they climb the tree to worship him. When times are good the little people ignore him. 

There was the time when the tree was almost overrun with the Greater European Wood Weevil. O’Dan, the god, suggested after a lot of worshipping that the weevil would be good roasted with some butter. The little people ate well for a month. O’Dan was just relieved that they had stopped hitting him. 

The little people understood very little but managed to get by.