The complete 27-minute film comprises 24 numbered sections, and may be viewed as a sequence of separate, interlocking filmpoems with recurring motifs.
For this winter, I have broken up the film into 24 parts and will be posting them day by day as we approach the winter solstice, in the style of an advent calendar. Each one is between 45 and 120 seconds each. So start your day with a few drops of imagery …
Today, it is Vanishing Point, just click the screen below to watch the 119 seconds of poem stretching from the brick works at the bottom of Corfe Mullen in Dorset with the Mesolithic settlers of a fecund area.
We’re shouting in the last hours
of illumination, guest workers free running
through the Roman dig behind the rec
until they reach the meadow, thickening
in the frame to the lower interglacial,
tectonics folding words into the mouth
as the sky sets in ice at the churned entrance
to the site, pockets of cloud frozen in mud
scanning for their signal. It’s 30,000 years
from any Sunday papers. The news is grainy.
The jobs at Beacon Hill brick works are down
to their last layers of clay when the school leaver
strikes human deposits, flint points cut from
the core. A scattering of bones stops work
and reels in the experts with free running water
and full spectrum analysis. The school leaver
palms the core and stoves it in a sock drawer,
sells it down the pub to a science teacher with a
ley line handbook. Years later, older, wider,
he can see bushes breathing in the breeze
swelling as if they knew just where to blow their
blossom, the painter standing back to shift
the spectrum of his palette. Cobalt, Chinese white,
Payne’s gray for the sky behind the copse,
brushes loaded, aligned to depth and distance,
the vanishing point of the furthest signal.