16th August 2008, pencil on bristol board, 29.5x21cm, no references. Soundtrack: "Coming Home" by Angel Dust.


The vale of death! that hush’d Cimmerian vale
Where darkness, brooding o’er unfinish’d fates,
With raven wing incumbent, waits the day
(Dread day!) that interdicts all future change!
That subterranean world, that land of ruin!
Edward Young (1683-1765)
Night Thoughts, iii, 255-9

"I bear in my hand war and death."
(Bella manu letumque gero)
Publius Virgilius Maro (70-19BC)
Æneid, VII, 455

The following poem was kindly written by Barrie Singleton especially for this artwork, and appears by his courtesy.
Many thanks, Barrie...

Coming Home

Great Ages die un-mourned; no stone proclaims
their aims and ethos cycled to a close.
But those who populate a later time
divine in ancient myth a haunting trace
of grace and chivalry: pure, unalloyed.

Majestic argent clouds no more hold back
the black that follows hard on Sol’s defeat.
That noble orb cut off, brought low, outfought
by water’s vaporous bullion-billowing
that brings a paradoxic, pressing pall.

Though Valour won the day, all standards fall
with all that is contended lost to Man.
Since time began no greater price was paid;
no biding maiden bathed his wounds in smile;
the extra mile was gone to no reward.

The Abbey looms through time, its shadow long
and echoed song gives forth a darkling beam.
This scene attracts the Raven’s evil eye.
His rosary of one black-hearted bead
takes heed and prays to please, anon, his Lord.

Love’s oaken cell lies, this knight’s stature deep
there keeping sunlit memories pure-bound
‘neath hallowed ground until the day he’d kneel
to feel, through steel-clad breast, soft heart denied
that died of excess sensibility.

As woman weeps, so man is born to war
though she deplore the going down of sons
the ones with wit to win stir life and loin;
victors conjoin, to Nature’s lusty lore
ensuring more are born, set in Her way.

The broken sun breaks on a broken sword;
all but his word was broken in that field.
No shield can swerve the thrust of pointed truth
denied to youth, yet vitally intent;
with tabard timely rent - its blade strikes deep.

Time broods on all: time lost - time not to be;
to Gravity, time’s drip and grain succumb.
Now numbed in stark futility’s embrace
all grace denied to valorous essay
delay enfolds the world and dreams abort.

Whither Valour now; what purpose served?
His enervated being stands perplexed
all purpose vexed by abject Fate’s charade;
façade in ruin, like to that relict pile
as vile Raven flaps his bounty home.

The New Moon's shadowed eye, lost essence grieves;
dark-cleaving sky, suborning honour’s will
and he but ill-defined, swathed in that light
a Dark Knight, of heroic deeds foretold;
as winter's cold renaissance dawns on all.

© Barrie Singleton