Dystopia. #21

Everywhere. 27 January 2018

The Eloi, called by the siren, walk meekly to their doom. Human cattle for the Morlocks. Verne's time machine showing the end of free will and cognitive thought.

Brave New World. Soma for the masses in a celebrity tweet. Eighty odd years since Huxley's premonition. The 'World State' is here and now. Manipulation of both the vacuous and the dullard. Civil liberty; the first casualty. 

Oceania by any other name. Collective sleepwalking from truth to trivia; whilst shackling individuals and individualism. A cyber world of objective fragility instead of rigorous grit. Orwell's warning: there for all to see.

Bradbury's book burners long redundant. Fahrenheit ashes readily kicked over with minimal resistance. Humanity looking on and complicit by inaction; showing the ugly face of mass apathy. Universal mind numbing greed readily accepted...

Boardwalk. #20

Ria de Alvor. Algarve. 22 January 2018

The boardwalk stollers being passed by power walkers and power talkers. Self absorbed shouting. 

Startled Sanderling running along to the edge of safety; where water meets creek. Nature's comical clockwork wind-up plover. 

The holding hands couple showing the world their commitment to each other in a grip. But perhaps trying too hard. 

Mud probing Whimbrel takes flight. Whistling its classic 'ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti' as it denounces its forced departure.

The tech trendy, seeking inspiration from his latest electronic 'must have'. Destined to be disappointed: secondhand life in a screen.

'Plain old' Cormorants flying low in formation overhead. But, thirty-five in number and as dark and menacing as Axis bombers. 

The young mum and her buggy, walking another generational conveyor belt. Baby talk existence.

The obliging Bluethroat showing well. Resting lightly on dwarf scrub above low water. Perfect...

Laundrette. #19

Portimão. Algarve. 15 January 2018

The 'round the world' couple with their washing to match their dreams; flamboyant and exotic, destination clothes. 

The londoner who moved two hundred miles to the coast and found her 'best' childhood friend sat next to her. 

The grandmother who lost her identity and became the unpaid babysitter; 'life wasn't meant to be like this'. But it is. 

The octogenarian who's sailing the worlds oceans until life's clock ceases and mortal coils are shuffled off. 

The unknown tongue spoken by an unknown traveller. Eye contact and gestures show we're just the same. 

The grubby old boy who can tell a tale or two if you've the patience and humanity to listen. Old and lonely, he shames us all. 

The sparky Irish beauty that leaves admiring glances in her wake. Very aware and very wary. Silk around calico. 

The city gent that shuffles in his seat, his broadsheet his shield. His gaze of unfamiliar and unwillingness: for all to see.

And the vagabond in the corner; watching, listening...

Cyclops. #18

Farol do Cabo de São Vicente. Sagres Peninsula. 11 January 2018

So new, but so familiar. Like my summer haunt across the ocean; now winter covered, all fret and gloom. 

Same function in the same sea, but history was won and lost here, fame and fortune cutting out into the deadly night. 

All through dark times you've shone like the beacon you are. A piercing light cutting through the blackness. 

Strategically placed at the end of the known world. No European peninsula more south-westerly than where you dominate both land and sea.

Growing bigger, more powerful. Henry the Navigator wooed you as his gateway to the unknown. The last bastion of civilisation and safety. 

Offshore when you slumber, the Shearwater ride the troughs, gaining advantage in changing pressure. Balearic more common here, but still endangered. 

Above the brooding cliffs, Peregrine slice through the wind whilst Chough merely dance with it. Raw power intertwined with graceful ballet. Same as summer lost. 

But the night-time shows your dominance. The Odyssey Cyclops: your penertrating presence; your reason for being. 

Like a moth I'm drawn to you; the 'something of the night' in me. Unwillingly revealed but revelling in your metronomic embrace. 

Illuminated, but inevitably shrinking under the unnerving penetration of your gaze... 

Dunes. #17

Meia Praia. Algarve. 4 January 2018

Past the lapping waves and the 'bronzing' golden sands to the distant 'rough and ready' dunes above. A rarely pondered multi-layered ecosystem. So much more interesting than the empty desert below. 

Your whole stability relies on a series of stand alone 'binders' with tenacity and adaptability. An ability to root and thrive in an arid constantly shifting landscape. 

Niche theory alive and waving in the wind, and without it the 'big attraction' below would cease to be.  

Your marram grass, your dwarf shrub, your sea holly; all vital to the belt, that is neither beach nor terra firma. Surviving in shifting host sand, as fluid as the sea itself. 

And within your shifting world lives the interconnected relationships only noted by the curious and the obsessive. 

An interaction between herbivore and the carnivore, the preyed upon and the preyed. A shifting savanna of toil and struggle, a game of life and death. 

'Beetle' chasing 'sandhopper' chasing 'thrip'. All falling foul to Crested Lark, and Meadow Pipit, and a dozen other avian opportunists.

Sometimes walked through, often abused, invariably ignored; but just occasionally, pondered...

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