The Historian's Aprentice

The Historian’s Apprentice

By the light of the candles,

And the smell of the must,

I wear out my elbows,

Shifting cobwebs and dust.

And fetching the ink, 

For the Grey Hat to scribe,

But for me to be near her,

Is enough of a bribe.

She babbles and mutters,

As she wields her straw broom.

As the long candles flicker,

Her words fill up the room.

She drawls about medicine,

And mutters in verse,

And her opinions on maths,

Come out clear and terse.

When she lectures on love,

A tear shines in her eye,

But, I’ll never have the courage,

To ask her just why.

When her broom is hung up,

And the ink put away,

And the last of the chores,

Are checked off for the day.

She looks at me then,

Through rheumy grey eyes,

As the last of the sunlight

Reflected there dies.

And I take her gnarled hand,

And I lead her back home,

Where she sleeps like a bookmark,

In a bed-sized old tome.

The Dark Water

Wax and grow, spreading, slow,

Trickle and wend, around the bend.

Gurgle and flow, up we go,

To laughter's death and smile's end.

Seep, creep, up the wall,

Grip the pipe, grasp the gutters,

Up to the highest windows tall,

To parch the life behind the shutters.

Bubble and creep, quick and steep,

Ooze and pour, onto the floor,

Through the window, in we seep,

To the light blue room, with the painted door.

What the Wind Brings - Page 01

Turbulent Waters

All of my friends 

can count higher than me,

They can add,

and subtract,

and think faster than me.

And they can sit still,

when the teacher is talking,

while I'd sooner be out climbing a tree,

or just walking,

My parents have weeded,

and tiled my path,

They've paid for my tutors,

and helped me with math,

But I'm only happy 

when I'm down by the sea

When I can be the person

who I want to be.

Emelia's Letter

Paper airplanes predate real planes, which is why some people still call them paper darts.

Sir Barry

He cuts a fine figure,

In his burgundy gown.

A vender of vigour.

A young frog about town.

A high social climber,

despite his wet skin,

but the servants and houseboys,

still won’t let him in.

For the folk of blue blood,

and the well-heeled young witches,

disdain folk of the mud,

the denizens of the ditches.

And so every night

Once the wine is all drunk,

he'll return to his home,

in a hollowed out trunk.

Alistair the Frog

I punt down the river,

and sleep by its side,

Although I sell lots of things,

I don't charge for a ride.

The frogs although gifted,

don't have a quick mind,

So they turn to the foundlings,

and those left behind,

To sell people their wares,

their weaving, and pottery.

I've won the greatest of prizes,

in life's lazy lottery.

Return

I'm back from my longest gap away in a long time. I'm currently working on an animated book called Don't Be Alien, and I'll be posting about that in the next month or two. Also, it feels really good to draw something that makes no sense for no reason:

Vagrant

Runaways Pilot Animatic

The first draft animatic for a series pilot about a girl and a dog, who run away to live independently in the woods.

The Green Queen

Illustrations for a short story about a woman who lives in the woods and ages with the seasons. There is no way to choose how blogger arranges the images, so they're presented in no particular order.