Each section of the project provides the listener or reader with a glimpse into one fragment of the adventures of a boy called Jacob.
Nesting Fragments is made up of a selection of musical compositions and poems, but you can download the entire project via the Making Jacob Bandcamp Page.
From out behind the images,
Spun from banks of visions,
Wrought from pulpish, bulging clods
Of mud from off my boots;
In some such way my thoughts emerge,
Aloud, aside, or in my head,
Always in an attempt to sound
Some sense from out my steps.
Yes, I begin by talking.
They begin with steps themselves
And in so pacing find their path.
Jacob started walking.
Trudging through a waist thick fog,
A thawing plough upon his boots
And sleep lurking in every blink,
Jacob felt the journey’s weight
Begin to ache him to the core.
Once or twice he had looked back,
During his morning’s trek,
But the way those probing towers grasped,
Blindly winking at his back,
Told him that he must ‘soldier on’,
As mother might have said.
At Dawn, Post-haste
At dawn, post-haste,
The swallow’s cry
Comes swooping from the slanted tiles,
Slings itself about my neck and tells me things I half forget,
After that waking hour.
The squawkings fall
As I walk under dawn’s night-laden trees,
And with those calls, a cry descends;
Some half-heard note of company.
She, a friend from winters past,
Now carelessly thrown up,
Crowds into the day I breath
And teeters on the cusp:
A substance on the gullet creeping
Throatless from the trees at dusk,
Her disembodied cry erupts
To dash itself against me.
Against my eyes she falls once more,
As I look on, and shrink away
From all the gaggled colours there
That spill over the grey.
Then And Now
Jacob sat, or rather perched, upon a feeble, low brick wall,
His back towards the broken panes and hollow rooms
From whence he once had feared the cranes that lumbered overhead.
Those looming, cruel, skeletal frames had printed once their stern reproof
Upon that boy’s encumbered gaze.
Now, sitting there, his glances made a slow descent,
Sliding from the unhinged gate towards the pavement brink,
And out into the street.
There he saw what some did not not.
No passing driver seemed to sense the faded stains beneath their tyres,
Or care enough to pause and say:
‘I once saw flowers here,
‘I once was told a tale about a city’s granite back
‘That left its weighty disregard upon a child’s lap.’
Jacob knew that story well, far too well in fact,
But sitting where he sat that night
He saw with dual-twisted sight,
And felt the evening stir.
Through the pallid twilight glow
And up from out the sullen ground,
A silver grain of mist emerged
To spread its shiny self about the shoulders of his world.
He saw, as if somehow removed, his younger self come trundling up,
Laces frayed, eyes confused,
To split that moment stark in two.
In one eye stood the honest stones,
Rose the stairways, slid the glares,
But through the other smudges poured –
Gutter-dwelling, fear-induced –
The Nesting that he used to know,
Was just a place from out his youth.
The Nesting that he now surveyed
Became his time-entangled truth.