I (1700 to 1730)
White lines flicker by like heartbeats
on a black macadam river.
Hills flow slowly by
beneath an indeterminate sky –
pastel-apricot blends imperceptibly to dove grey,
before the rising blue flood of night.
From the kitchen window the sky is a flower,
above the scalloped edge of the ridge
an inch of golden yellow ribbon
trims a blanket of purple velvet
specked with the first few stars.
Above the trees,
whose presence is implied
only by the stars that they hide,
Orion has tipped over sideways –
a fallen statue beside a milky stream.
IV (0530 to 0540)
Against a background of a billion bright dust-motes
a scrap of ice and stone,
heated to incandescence,
inscribe its path on the sky.
Blink and it’s gone, but another,
follows. Lower down,
four planets have lined up to point out
where the sun will later rise.
V (0640 to 0700)
Light comes before colour:
a white sky seen through a picket-fence of black tree trunks.
Then, a confusion of hues; yellows, greens,
and last night’s apricot now fully ripened.
Then the day washes downwards from the sky,
and the tree trunks are silver against blue.
Some explanation of IV: I got up at about 0530 this morning to look at the eta aquariid meteor shower. After trundling up the driveway and out the gate, and down the road a little and not seeing anything (other than the four planets currently in alignment) I decided “sod this, it’s too cold”. As I turned to go back up the hill I finally saw a meteor, so I lay down on the road for a bit and saw six in quick succession.
And this is what I’ve started to think of a pansy coloured sky:
lies in strips across the path
and drips onto my hair
until, shaking it from me,
it pools on the doormat
where by sunrise it has gone
I’ve resumed my daily walks, but with daylight saving time over my walks are now mostly in the dark. At least at the moment the moon is near full.
Be careful what you turn into words,
and who you give those words to.
You never know what they might do to it –
how they’ll scuff or chip or stain it,
so that it’s never quite bright and clean,
never quite perfect, again. Continue reading
Filed under musings, poem
“I’ll talk it all to pieces if I have to tell about it. Then it’s gone, and when I try to remember what it was really like, I remember only my own story”. Snufkin (‘The Spring Tune’, Tove Jansson)
Let me give you a moment of my time –
a story –
all that I saw, heard, felt..
how it was
(well, at least how it was for me)
turned to words, as best I can. Continue reading
Filed under musings, poem
The trees have sliced the moonlight,
and dropped it
in white strips across the path.
My shadow trails behind me
through this monochrome brightness,
then leads me home
to stand in the doorway
and ask if I want to come in.
From an angle
I saw, Continue reading
Don’t gaze into my eyes to look for my soul –
eyes are windows for the soul to look out
from the darkness behind.
From the outside,
they are only curved one-way mirrors,
reflecting back your own reduced and distorted image.
In response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “bewitched” :
Come, walk with me –
slip into my mind like an April witch
and nestle in the space behind my eyes. Continue reading
Like aspiring April witches,
but ones invited in –
seeing through another’s eyes,
feeling through their skin.
Second hand experience,
translated – therein blurred
a curious distant intimacy
grown from all these words.