Gallery 1- High Street Shrine, Body Bags & Mother & Child
High Street Shrines
The Expectance of silence.
From the approaching trees, birds move
Darting through the branches, feathers hang
From congealed flesh like black tongues rolled:
So many haloes looping the sky
Death is in this place, not a dying of flesh
But the past housed in the mind
Like museum pieces Time itself without life.
Is this the ritual
Barbed to blood on wire thorns
The mind leaving memory traces: falling in
The gaps between their lives, why am I here?
To exorcize the living.
From fading photographs figures emerge
Ghost-like on white paper
Mother & Child Diptych