Tag: breeze

Garden.

Lucy

We wove some magic here.

Deckled trees with fairy dust—

the figments of our imaginations drew lines

between the sky

between the leaves

between the earth.

A white butterfly

—wandered, onward, captain of our fairy band—

buffeted by the breeze

took flight

and glittered flicking wings

into the sunlight.

He was like our memory

—allied and squandered to the air—

a captain captive to the passing currents

at rest on tides of drifting listlessness

buoyed on waves of sound—loud

reverbed from the earth itself

and beneath the ground dispersed to nothing but vibrations.

Caws of magpie on the branches of trees

beyond the fence-lines

called insistent, echoed

and, in flight, drew ever more away.

We left a fish adrift on the wall

—light-flicker, silver scales in the sun—

to tinker with our senses

breaking beams against one another in refraction

into parts.

We played colour against cousin

and deployed in every gesture of design

a symmetry of power in all things that’s mirrored

in perfection

by the most broken shook-up thoughts of early morning

when night’s break seems to slumber

beyond the restless sleepless soul.

Little carrions of life

—bearing sunshine as they went

light caught white upon their tiny wings—

darted, tumbled, climbed and flew

their circus one of circles through the sky

an endless repetition of their patterns

that went on gently till the nightfall.

We saw every tiny thing alight

—their edges made their edges

and at once made melting edge-to-edge—

their glimmered rims glimpsed through lashes

looked-at sideways

caught in sketches from the doorways

of the moments

only half-here and half-now.

Sky-shimmers, the lineaments

copied in colour to our files and stored in footloose memory

to make the fodder of our dreams

when distorted

cards shuffled

and re-drawn upon the pages of imagination sleeping.

 

We weave some magic here

sleeping awake

in day-dreaming

in slow reading

of the air.

Found in a Notebook, titled ‘Au Printemps. St Kilda Botanical Gardens. A sunny Tuesday.’

Lucy

Para-gliders — five of them — loop across the bright, warm blue sky. The day is cloudless, stirred by a slight, light breeze. How far can they see, from up there? A vast stretch of billowing, bloated mass of inhabited land. The ocean; the ships beyond the horizon. What do they see of me? A small, black splodge; an ant on grass, as insignificant as the winged ant that just now alights upon my scribbling page.

On the subject of insects — there are bees about, hovering peacefully above the clusters of yellow daisy-like blooms that sprout from the grass in ragged patches wilted by the sun. The occasional fly goes by my ear.

Another sky-watcher makes his way across the blue; a light plane, mumbling and growling back and forth, the light shining silver on the white body of the plane.

Sunbathing season has begun. The lawns are littered with girls baring themselves to the warm spring sun, so I am not out of company with my cotton bath-sheet to spread upon the grass. Contented-looking babies are wheeled about the gardens by their mothers.

Distant, high-pitched screams come from above, as another para-glider’s chute opens with a strange crackling roar.

The breeze feels layered; it buffets across my skin in alternating, mingling streams of cool, dry, quick air, and pockets of languorous, humid warmth.