Ode to Dog

image

Our fascination with dogs stretches way back and we have both observed and cohabited with them for as long as records can recall. In honour of what they mean to us, what they give and what they do, men and women the globe over have immortalised their experiences in ink. Although there are many brilliant examples, below are just a few of those readily available on the internet.

My little dog – a heartbeat at my feet. ~ Edith Wharton
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read. ~ Groucho Marx
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace. ~ Milan Kundera
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much. ~ Mark Twain
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Such short little lives our pets have to spend with us, and they spend most of it waiting for us to come home each day. It is amazing how much love and laughter they bring into our lives and even how much closer we become with each other because of them. ~ John Grogan
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Dogs are really people with short legs in fur coats. ~ Unknown
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Whoever said you can’t buy happiness forgot little puppies. ~ Gene Hill
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
When you feel dog tired at night, it may be because you’ve growled all day long.” ~ Unknown
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren’t certain we knew better. ~ George Bird Evans

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

A dark-winged moth

Like a dark-winged moth
coveting a flame that will surely kill her,
she sits just inches from the light –
a plastic monument
similar in shape to London’s Gerkin,
only smaller and many miles from the Thames.

The last time she went there,
London’s Southbank,
was years ago.
The closest she’s been since was dinner in Eton:
same river, different town;
an hour from the capital.

She wonders how much it has changed
and if it has missed her?
She wonders if any of her friends still live there
and which of them remember her when she did if they do?
She wonders when she will go back and if she ever will,
why she would want to?

She wonders why she wonders about things so much
when wondering only creates problems
she has no idea how to solve?
Wondering this,
she decides to stop;
only it’s not that simple,

and somehow,
wondering about the little things,
the trivialities,
helps stop her from thinking too much
about the things that really matter,
like family and friendship and love.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

For the love of Chi

IMG_6018I keep harping on about my chihuahua, Miabella and of the importance of her to my work. And it occurred to me that she really ought to have her own page; that it wasn’t fair otherwise. So this is Mia’s personal page.

Here I will post doggy anecdotes, funny chihuahua happenstances and cute and cuddly images. Be sure to check back often to keep up. And, if you happen to have a chihuahua of your own, or any four-legged companion for that matter (because I love all animals as a rule, apart from, perhaps, the creepy ones), feel free to send me your stories and photos. Us animal lovers are all the same: mad about our cuddly counterparts.

Photo Journal:

Six weeks old

8 weeks: the prettiest eyes

I’ve only had Mia for two weeks. She is a scant eight-weeks-old today. She was a only six weeks when I got her. Too early, really, but the breeder told me it was ok. It was only afterwards that I found out she should have stayed with her mother for at least another fourteen days. Poor thing: she misses her and cries at night. Still, she is instantly at home in my two-up, two-down Victorian semi in Sevenoaks (Kent, England) and we immediately become inseparable; a state we have maintained ever since.

Intended to help see me through a bereavement, that of my beloved grandmother (whom I loved deeply and admired just as much): she is my sole focus, the equivalent of a comfort blanket to my soul.

7 weeks old

7 weeks: a proper little cub

Ok, so she’s already being spoilt rotten and immediately has three beds (Cath Kidston, because I’m obsessed), and that’s just the official ones. On top of that, she has a bed in a drawer at my desk (because she likes to sit near me and cries when I put her on the floor), a space in my bed for afternoon reading and snoozing (very important stuff: I do my best thinking here), a corner of the main sofa for evening TV (we watch two hours: A place in the sun and an American series – Gossip Girl, Grey’s Anatomy, Ghost Whisperer, Dexter, Lost, 24, etc…) and a blanket under the kitchen table for when her elder(s) are at dinner (although in all honesty, she prefers my lap and usually wins).

I have also recently discovered the website Pet London and gone mad. This is like the cutest shop I have even seen. It’s positively dangerous. Already, I’ve spent too much. She has chihuahua-shaped everything: chew toys, rope toys, plush toys, treats, etc… A baby blue cashmere jumper, a pale blue suede lead with tiny yellow ducks and Swarovski diamantés and a matching collar. Next, I’m planning a tartan winter coat with white fur trimming, a bedtime t-shirt, and several jumpers and dresses, all of which I have already picked and added to my list. The rest of the world, meanwhile, thinks I have gone mad. And quite rightly so.

About a year old

1 year: beneath the duvet

Bed is Mia’s favourite place, so long as it’s mine and not hers. She likes nothing better than to lord it up on the mattress, surveying the carpet kingdom below. Every afternoon she snuggles up in the crook of my arm while I read, both of us deliriously happy.

After having survived the first nine months, which were a shock to my system never having had a puppy before and being quite unprepared for the amount of work involved, I am truly a ‘plus one’ and loving it. She is, I have decided, my surrogate child. And for now, if not forever, the option I prefer. Real babies are a decision for the future with tangled threads attached. I’m not sure if I am strong enough, well enough or brave enough to go there, or if I have the time to get there before that decision is made for me.

Five years old, same day

5 years: a lap of luxury

Mia likes to travel in style. None of that crate business or belt on the back seat business for her. She insists upon the front and my lap. And she has to be lying in exactly the right position or she’s not happy: sprawled directly across me; her head on one arm, her bottom on the other. Great for her. Slightly uncomfortable for me, especially when I am supposed to be knitting.

Five years old

Same age, day, car, lap

Just before we park up and disembark at one of our favourite morning haunts. Today my desk is a Mallorcan café in Port Adriano, to the west of the island. The view, a panorama of expensive boats. Some are as big as villages. Some have heliports on top. All have staff. I’ve never seen anything like it before, even in St. Tropez.

Mia's favourite place in the world, beside my lap.

Mia’s favourite place in the world, beside my lap.

This is Mia’s bed, or her main one anyway. She actually has a few. One is a suedo-armchair meant for toddlers, which she sits in like a throne. One is a regular pillow covered in a cashmere jumper that, accidentally for me because I loved it, shrank in the wash. Another is her crate, which Mia loves and insists upon, regardless of all attempts to remove it. This is actually where she sleeps (her choice) and where she rests when I go out (also her choice). And there are her two Cath Kidston beds, my favourites, currently slumbering in storage.

Looking serene and regal on my lap...

Looking like butter wouldn’t melt…

Mia likes to come out with me as often as she can, sleeping quietly on my lap while I work. As a breed, chihuahua’s sleep a lot: around 18 hours a day. I used to worry about this until I researched it. Now I understand it is her choice: she is a creature of whim and does what, in the moment, feels right. When she’s not sleeping, she’s running around at 100 m.p.h or licking something.

...but unable to keep her eyes open for long. Oh to be a chihuahua

…but unable to keep it up

This photo and the one above it were taken in Gibson, one of my favourite cafés. I love it for the art on the walls, the avante-guarde furniture, the people it employs and the music they play. Situated in the centre of Palma, it is right in the heart of where it is all happening. A great place for watching the world go by.

Pretty in Pink

Pretty in Pink

Another day, another day trip, this time to a nearby village called Binnisalem to meet with friends for coffee. Because it was such a lovely hot day, we sat outside. While the grown-ups talked about boring grown-up stuff, Mia entertained herself attempting to intimidate a Doberman. Typically, the minute it advanced, fed up with being bullied by a scrap, she hid behind my feet, leaving me to deal with the the fallout. Luckily, there was a kindly owner at hand to save the day and the only damage was to my dignity.

• Because I am not the only doting dog owner and because I am in good company, some of it distinguished, I have assembled a collection of dog-related quotes. Click here to read them and feel free to email me with your own favourites.

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

Invisible Clouds – poetry

image

On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out,
passing through the belly of invisible clouds.
It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars,
briefly drowning out the drone of crickets.
The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink,
descending on crumbs
I forgot to clean up.

Their perceptivity fascinates me,
but I am tired
of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place –
the moon, the crickets, the ants:
acting on impulse, driven by instinct.

Subject to the whim of emotion,
ruled by my own dark tides:
I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

Invisible Clouds – prose

image

On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out, passing through the belly of invisible clouds. It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars, briefly drowning out the drone of crickets. The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink, descending on crumbs I forgot to clean up. Their perceptivity fascinates me, but I am tired of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place – the moon, the crickets, the ants: acting on impulse, driven by instinct. Subject to the whim of emotion, ruled by my own dark tides: I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

It’s ok to judge a book by its cover…

image
Especially this one – as it’s creator, I’m allowed to say that.

I was so enchanted with my iPad case, I felt compelled to make another one almost right away. So, after spending a few days on lacework for one of my pieces (clouds for my flamingo picture – the ‘fit bird’ in my life), I am back knitting in the round with my favourite faux-Fairisle. And what a jolly little ball it is, all pinks and blues with a dash of brown. Not having used this particular dye pattern before, I am intrigued as to how it will knit out.

A pretty little picot

A pretty little picot

Two journeys in (remember, I am knitting in the car) and this is my progress. Casting on stitches with a chihuahua on your lap (yes, I am a total cliché, my dog never far from away from my knees) is somewhat challenging, especially when ‘said’ canine is reluctant to sit still. But we got there in the end and I managed to cast on, join and begin in earnest, to the tune of: click, click, click.

What you can see above is the brim (think hat) or cuff (think jumper). Essentially ten rounds of knit, then a round of yo, k2, followed by another 10 k. The result, when folded and sewn down: a picot edge. Having used it before with hats and socks, it is familiar. It is also that little bit more interesting than a basic rib and rather pretty without being unnecessarily tiresome or complex. Sometimes one needs nice and simple; for the motion and the focus to be the purpose of the thing, its meditative rhythm, healing and calming, slowing the inner banter, quietening it.

*

Familiar quarters

Familiar Quarters

Comfortable Centers

A nip and a tuck

Celebrated Endings

I have been working for a little over a week – my knitting time restricted, permitted only in certain locations and at certain hours: typically those bookmarking the morning. They amount to the too’s and fro’s of my life and, like retail therapy, provide valuable diversion; the only difference being that here the distraction is from commuters not change, the antagonists people in charge of cars.

As I have advanced, the pattern hidden inside the wool has revealed itself. It is different to my expectations. I had anticipated something paler – more yellow and pink, less green and brown. I imagined it would be summery, in keeping with the current season. Instead, its palette reminds me of autumn, of gathered fruits and fallen leaves, of sweet and savoury sensory suggestions, a kitchen alive with cooking things, like chutney, jam and cakes. It rewinds me to a previous life, to a different year, to the crunch of dried things and early sunsets, to orange soaking the sky with the promise of a clear tomorrow, to the embrace of a familial landscape and the security of being young. I become nostalgic, lusting after a yesterday that I’m not sure ever was, craving a storybook illustration when the reality was somewhat more generic, mass-produced and black and white.

My attention focused, I proceed quickly, secure within the pattern. Freed from my notes, I slip into trance, my thoughts drifting in and out, sinking down and under. I feel at peace, the journey no longer a source of antagonism. Each time we arrive (me and whoever is driving), whether at home or away, I am slightly disappointed, part of me longing to prolong my containment. This is a good sign. It means that the process is working, the piece filled with energy, intention and love.

At the close of each journey, I measure the case against my Kindle to stop it from running wild. I am conscious that in my relaxed state it could easily grow ferrel, freedom enticing it to take the control from my hands.

Finally, I reach the end, deciding to fold over and secure the open top before committing to the closed bottom. An extra line of security, so to speak, allowing me one last measurement before I swap my KnitPro Symfonie Circulars for a Clover “Chibi” Bent Tip.

I fold the picot in half to create a seam. This gives the undulating edge, which always reminds me of castle battlements and medieval stonework. One of these days, I shall have to substitute the bow for a gargoyle to complete the effect. As an idea, it appeals, being somewhat quirky.

I can now bind off with confidence, safe in the knowledge that I am knitting in accordance to rather than against; that, upon completion, I will not have to retrace my steps. Believe me when I tell you that casting off too early is devastating, being meticulous, painful, somewhat dangerous and repetitive. Besides, not one to endorse mistakes, holding to the belief that everything happens for a reason the exact way that it is, I would also be stuck with continuing, reinventing the purpose of the piece, item or garment in question, finding somewhere else for it to fit in amongst the plethora of things I wish to make. Sometimes successful, sometimes not: it is better with specific items to proceed slowly, holding back rather than getting carried away, even if that means ten minutes of travelling at speed on the motorway with nothing but the blur of passing cars and the straight line of the horizon (interrupted sporadically by farmsteads and tree clusters) to distract me.

*

Snug as a Kindle in a ball of wool case

One last measurement

I find my Kindle and slip it inside the case, pulling the cuff right up to the top and then a little over, making sure it is both snug and comfortable, roomy but not oversized. It fits. I can now sew up the open end and declare it finished but for a bow, which I started making yesterday and plan to complete today.

After some deliberation, I decided upon a pale blue for the bow. It went well against the colouring of the case, matching the palette within the pattern, drawing focus to it. In addition, it was more interesting than a pale or medium pink, there being a lot of that already and my having only just completed work on one of those for another piece. Besides, I like that it clashes slightly, the blue contrasting the green like two flavours of mint gum or a stripped toothpaste; they fit together, while simultaneously standing out: a bit like me and my personality.

[ A slight deviation detailing my personality: On the outside, I am conservative and painfully polite. I wouldn’t say “Boo!” to a ghost, or even have the confidence to stick around long enough to try. Dig deeper and get to know me, allow me to trust you and grow to like you, and the real me comes out: dry-witted and mischievous. When dressing, I purposefully wear combinations that don’t ‘technically’ go: putting red with pink, blue with black, circles with stripes and cotton with silk. While classical, conventional, a homage to both the Victorian and Elizabethan eras; it’s quirky and edgy because it’s different, because it isn’t currently in fashion, because it won’t be and hasn’t been for quite some time. The eccentricity of it suits me, allowing me to express myself in subtle ways, revealing only what I feel confident enough to share. On good days, I go wild, really experimenting with it. On bad ones, I reign it in, placing my feet carefully. My wardrobe is a veritable sweetshop offering a rainbow of choice. I have fun with it.]

The happy couple are united

The happy couple are united

Casting on four stitches and using garter stitch, I knitted until I had achieved enough rows to tie the length created into a comfortable bow, testing it (you can see I like to do this: test, try out, make sure before committing; it’s something that expands into other areas of my life – sometimes aiding, sometimes hindering it) before casting off. I then decorated the bow with pearlescent beads, taking care to space them evenly – one above the other, three to a row.

And it's love at first sight

And it’s love at first sight

Done, pleased with the result, this was then stitched onto the front of the case using a technique called invisible stitching: the secret, matching the colour of the cotton to that of the wool, using small stitches and stitching neatly. Anything slapdash and it will show.

Especially for you

If you would like a case of your own, please don’t hesitate to email me; I would be more than happy to make a few for the right people and price. There are easily six weeks of summer left to survive before the madness abates (see: I spy with my little i for an explanation) and I shall be clicking without interruption throughout.

I’m also planning on making iPad, mini-iPad and iPhone cases, so keep your eyes open for these links to light up as I manifest my offspring. As with here, I will be documenting my progress throughout. Interested parties can sneak a peak, arouse their inspiration and pick up a few tips – like where to get wool and what wool to get, whether to use circular or dpn needles, which size works best, how long it all takes and ideas on how to accessorise once you are done.

Below are images of the yarn that I used and links to where I brought it. If you would like to make your own case or something similar (like a jumper or a scarf) you can easily order from here. I have to warn you though: they have discontinued the line, or at least this colour run, so stocks are running out. The same stands for those of you wishing to commission a replica. While I am more than happy for you to pick a ball from the site, I cannot guarantee I will be able to order it for you. It might perhaps be safer to order the desired ball on sight and then to have it posted on to me at my residence. That way, we all remain happy, our hearts achieving what they desire.

Sidar Snuggly Baby Crofter

Wool: Sidar Snuggly Baby Crofter DK

Pretty Paisley (147) – 50g

Shade: Pretty Paisley (147) – 50g

4mm needles; 22 stitches x 26 rows, 10x10cm tension square

Needles: 4mm needles; Gauge: 22 stitches x 26 rows, 10x10cm tension square

image

In Situ: Pretty Paisley (147) – 50g

Pretty Paisley (147) zoomed in

Close-up: Pretty Paisley (147)

I bought this yarn from woolwarehouse.co.uk. They are super-reliable, quick to act and prompt to dispatch and even post abroad at very little cost. That gives them five stars from me.

What colours will you choose?

So far, I have ordered one with my dog’s name (Bella) and one with my childhood cat’s (Fifi), for that reason alone. I also have a healthy collection of others and now possess over twenty different shades, although I have no idea which one is my favourite. I love them all, my preference shifting along with my intention and in line with my mood.

image

Available Shades

If you would like to see them in action: my flamingo’s hair is made out of Bella, the grass in The Fairy Princess and The Frog Prince is Nessie, and the background for Angel Delight and The Chocolate Bunny is Elsie. And that’s just off the top of my head…

• see the rest of the collection
imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

Yesterday

image

A series of overcast days has reminded me how important the weather is, how much I value the sun; how deeply I loathe the winter, the accompanying cold and rain. With the decline, I’ve felt my mood plummet, matching the shift point for point. I cast my mind back over the past few months: the light, the heat – and forgive the intensity of it; even the nights when I couldn’t sleep, the mornings when the closeness of it was oppressive, hard to bear. Better that than this. Better that than me sat here shivering, struggling to warm up, cold in August) of all things.

Claustrophobia descends, settling around my body like a dense cloud: a fog I cannot see through. Hiding in my room, I seek the comfort of literature, curling my mind into the words as I curl my body into a blanket. I sip ginger and camomile tea against a backdrop of white: walls that are still, even after over a year of living here inhabiting this space, waiting to be decorated; the reluctance to put down roots, to claim my territory, to settle – here, anywhere – is evident.

I question my resistance, the reason for it, attempting to list the benefits. Footloose and fancy-free seem to have become my allies. Little and nothing my mantra. It’s all a bit too zen and a lot too modern. I’ve never been minimalistic. In England, my home was filled with personal effects; the space was a reflection of me. Fabric birds hung from painted ceilings. Paper butterflies clung to knitted plants. China ornaments talked to tin toys. Picture frames reclined in alcoves and rested on shelves. Books lined walls, creating temporary tables on polished floors. Paintings, mostly by me, although some by my friends, hung everywhere. I belonged there: it was my nest. Here, it’s more like someone else’s space, my being here borrowing.

I decide that I need to make more of an effort and that I need to work harder on finding my happiness within. This becomes increasingly important as August disappears, each day passing bringing me closer to autumn and the start of everything closing and emptying, shutting down. The tourists will leave, the hotels will close, towns will turn into shells. Unlike other places: there is only life here for half of the year. I dislike that, the isolation that prevails. It is hard enough to navigate my own rocky terain, without also having to deal with the external. I wonder if there is anywhere in the world that suits me; if there is such a thing as an everyday sunshine place? No longer convinced; I still choose to believe. For to give up hope, to abandon the dream, is tantamount to giving up and abandoning everything: my writing, my art, my desire to be something more, my pursuit of the kind of happiness that resides inside myself.

Tired of thinking, I let my eyes close and surrender myself to sleep.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter014/08/image35.jpg” alt=”image” width=”800″ height=”321″

Trapped until summoned

imageThe pain attacks my head,
sticking my eyes with needles,
making a cushion out of me.

My heart pounds,
my stomach lurches,
my throat becomes a summer meadow.
My feet want to stay still
but can’t stop moving.

Trapped inside,
glued to a chair by my dog,
waiting on him,
I have no option but to remain where I am until summoned,
staring at my phone,
willing it to ring.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

Yesterday’s desire. Tomorrow’s heartache.

image

Arriving at the beginning, she feels frustrated. How many times has she travelled this way, circling the exact same landscape, weaving in and out of similar trees, meeting and greeting familiar people? Despite having lost count, she knows it is too many. Only a fool would keep repeating the same mistakes, failing to learn, not just from what has already been, but what has been and been despised.

Feeling the twist of loss, she rushes cobbled pavements, ignoring the blade in her foot and the furnace that surrounds her, drawn on by the possibility that life will call her bluff and people surprise her. She knows her wish is futile, her hope naïve, but she continues to dream regardless. A romantic soul with a lonely heart, she always looks on the bright side, attributing to events the benefit. Only when it comes to the weather, which belongs to another being far greater than she, does she doubt. Dreaming is what she excels at, what spurs her on, what allows her to continue, even in the face of it.

She arrives in a puddle of heat, immediately losing half of her dignity to the floor beneath her feet. The other half following, the moment she opens her mouth. An inconclusive reply in her mother tongue, a tongue different to that indigenous to here, further proving just how terrible her grasp of the language is; although she was understood, which must (surely) count for something. It does, doesn’t it? The important thing is that she tried and that she keeps on trying, like with her dreams. At some point the world will feel sorry for her and grant her her reward. She waits, her hands prostrate.

The bathroom, the scene of the crime, is empty. Slowly, she peels open the door, steps inside, catches the light, disturbing a band of neon overhead. To her surprise, her heart’s desire is exactly where she left it, looking forlorn, face to the wall. She snatches it up, lifts it to her mouth, gently kisses it, welcoming it home; then presses it to her breast, where it fits exactly: the final piece of a complicated puzzle.

Returning to the threefold space, a space functioning as entrance, centre and exit, too many jobs for anything so humble to do with any real success, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved, she expresses her thanks. In the city centre, finding anything that has been left, forgotten or mislaid is unusual, unless that thing belongs to another and is part of their heart’s ache. She decides she must have a guardian angel after all and makes a note to correct her parents, who harbour more formal views. That means that God does exist, the Tooth Fairy is real, and elves can and often do live amongst the flowers and the plants at the bottom of the garden. Now isn’t that so much nicer than worshipping the shrine of insignificance, holding fast to the belief that we are all alone?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

To keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

Super Moon

image

Once every thirteen months
the moon is uncharacteristically large,
the circumference of its orb almost threatening,
its glow, suffused with orange, demon-like.
Typical, then, that my eyes look up to a cloud-choked sky,
bereft even of the smallest hint of light.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

image

To keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter