searchingtoseeTraces
The Mummerehlen There is an old nursery rhyme that tells of Muhme Rehlen. Because the word Muhme meant nothing to me, this creature became for me a spirit: the mumerehlen. Early on, I learned to disguise myself in words, which were really clouds. The gift of perceiving similarities is, in fact, nothing but a weak remnant of the old compulsion to become similar and…
Birdwatching
© images and content Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2013
For later
I wonder if she will remember this moment. The feeling of his vast hands cocooning hers. All the impetuous haste of youth, she had. I can do it! He tried to slow her down. To show her. With the wisdom of the knowing tortoise. (She didn’t listen, of course.) I have saved it for her, anyhow. For later. For when she is ready to…
Coherence
The sky drops right down to the sea, and shears a perfect horizon at the edge of the world where the air meets salt water. The sea exhales, lilting undulant murmurs which curl and crease up to a wrinkle and then smooth again in turn. Rise and fall. As regular and certain as the breath, as the expanding and contracting of the lungs….
Comfort
© images and content Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2013
In the gallery
I took a trip to the Photographer’s gallery with Alex. It was the first time I had been there since the gallery found its new home on Ramillies Street. It’s a great spot; very quiet, understated, yet just yards from the frenzied consumerism of Oxford Circus. A “behind the scenes” glimpse, if you like. I used to visit the gallery often when it was…
Nature’s sweet promise
It’s still so cold and bleak out. As I walked my feet trod a dubious path of churned up mud and wasted bracken. I nodded at occasional dog walkers. Grim smiles. It was a cold day, and I kept my gloves on until I needed to take a shot. The wind whipped up around me on the open fields, and stung through the gaps…
Drifting
© images and content Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2013
The thread
She worried at her memory, tugging gently at soft silken skeins tightly bound by neglect and smudged by time. She smoothed them apart, just as she smoothed out her lines every evening at the bathroom mirror with the pads of her fingertips. They always came back, those little rivers, carving out a pale etching of her life. Each laugh, each frown, each smile. The…
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