Ross Wallis + Digital Media + Art

teacher and enthusiast

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A Winter Walk

Ram shackle tin sheet shed shack
Distemper white on stone walls
Rain green lead grey slate roofs
Discarded farm machinery in rusty confusion
Landrover panels and tractor wheels
Chain and spring cast iron
Ram hoof barb wire wool tangle
Moss mass fern bank dry stone wall and oak
Fallen tree trunk wood walk
Rain gorged stream rapid rush
Boulder smooth grey cloud sky
Fleece on thorn barb and bramble
Leaf mulch rusty red dead branch bog
Bone white skull and horns
Age old drove and dew pond
Willow ash birch hazel oak and elder
Fresh dug mole hill




Murmurations

The humans are murmarating again around Shapwick Heath and Ham Wall NNR a post festive what shall we do now outing - I know, the Avalon marshes - too fast along the bumpy tarmac road across peat moor cars like ants to birds strung end to end on the single track lane a string of festive lights all eager to arrive in time dancing to find a space in the already full parkery and out they tumble the families mingled with the elderly and the serious twitchers in multi pocketed camouflage jackets with expensive optical kit strung from neck and hip and dogs on leads and push chair couples dodging newly scootered boys and girls whose mums bring out bags of left over Christmas cake and mince pies all dressed in their best outdoor gear bright puffer jackets and woolly beanies festive scarves and wellies

The starlings start to appear at first just a few, but then the numbers swell and the human murmuring is hushed as well as all senses focus on the peppered sunset sky a train of expensive lenses attempt in vain to track and capture these transitory moments thousands upon thousands of pixilated dusk dull images of blurry blips in flight not capturing at all the majesty of this awesome sight

The birds all dance an age old dance making patterns in the sky flowing wreaths and flumes mirrored in the mill pond rhyne and the exhaled smoke of a roll up man tugging on a fag maybe dragged along by an over zealous birdie kind hanging in the air mimicking the spectacle out there across the marshes

For me a little knot of knowing as we learn that each season there are more of us and less of them return, still they do their thing, us in anticipation of where the flock might choose to roost this dusk then the milling disappointment as they settle far away and the trickle then flow back to the car and pub or an evening meal and telly in an electrically lit centrally heated nest leaving the starlings to their reeds and rest





Love the skin you’re in

Some women have huge hips and small tits
and are shaped just like a pear
Others have large tits and tiny hips
That isn’t very rare

The secret is to be to happy
In your individuality
You are different, unique
Like a priceless antique
The way you are supposed to be

Some men have huge penis’s
and are really very well hung
others are like a rosebud and have hardly just begun
Some are short and thin and others long and fat
With bits that dangle more or less
And that is simply that

It is indeed the way it is
A reflection of our genes
Be they hers or be they his or somewhere inbetween

It matters more where your skin has been
Where you take it for a spin
Ignore what others might think of you
Just bare it all and grin
You’re wonderful just the way you are
So love the skin you’re in
There should be no more not less of you
You’re a perfect specimen




Stacks Image 11




Imbolc

The seasons turning
Imbolc, time of Bridie
Juniper incense burning
Snowdrops in a flowerpot
A candle’s weak glow
A bunch of daffodil
The scent lingers longer in the cold air
We gather by the stones in ritual
Invoke Bridgid’s embryonic new year
A circle dance within a circle
A megalithic stone circle
An outer ring of oak
An Inner ring of oak dragon folk
And tourists pass us by
Fluorescent pinks and un-natural greens
glowing bright as neon
Sledge and Snow ball
On henge ridge and ditch
A family of three alike as triplets
Brand new suits, boots and red Parkas
Fake faix fur lined hoods marked and logoed
A hire card parked beside the road
English heritage for Asian travelers
What might they make of this
Huddle of pagan worshipers
Quaint old Englishness
New age and
Age old both
Celebrating this time and place
A sacred space



Bees Knees

You’re the bees knees
The dogs Bollocks
The cat’s pyjamas
The pick of the litter
A big cheese - on toast
A rarebit
The hostess with the mostest
The upper crust
The best thing since sliced bread
Angel dust
Delicious spread
Just my cuppa tea
A speciality
La creme de La creme
A Chicken Supreme
You are a chip off the old block
Lock, stock, you have me over a barrel
I would do anything to please
You’re just the bees knees