At the River’s Bend
Dusk leans against the bank and the water forgets its hurry. A heron fixes the world with one unblinking bead of light. Across the far reeds, someone counts under their breath—not numbers, exactly, but commas between breaths, like a rosary of pauses. A boy skims a stone and the circle widens, then loosens, then disappears into small attentions.
I watch the river practise memory. It keeps what is heavy, lets go what is bright. The cicadas begin as if re-threading a broken necklace. A fisherman touches the hull of his boat with a hand that knows the grammar of wood. He waits. We all do.
I walked home with wet cuffs and an old thought: perhaps art is learning where to place the pause. Not the note, not the image—but the hush that allows them to be heard.
Also in Library
Multiplicity and Mercy — The Face Towers of Jayavarman VII
A new vision of kingship rises at the Bayon: serene faces turned to every horizon, shaping a world where authority is expressed as care. Moving through the terraces, one enters a field of steady, compassionate presence — a landscape where stone, light, and time teach through quiet attention.
Stone That Dreams
Bayon wakes like a mind emerging from shadow. Its many faces shift with light and breath, teaching that perception—and the self—is never singular. In walking this forest of towers, the pilgrim discovers a quiet multiplicity within, held together by a calm that feels both ancient and newly understood.
The Still Eye — Craft, Meditation, and the Listening Camera
In the darkroom, silver begins to breathe—and a morning at Bayon returns. The essay moves from tray to temple and back, tightening its centre around a single vow: consent, not capture. A butterfly’s tremor, a lintel at dawn, a print clearing in water. Craft becomes meditation; the camera, a quiet bowl for light.
