As though the voices
were bounced back
hitting off
the hardwood floors
reverberating
through the common footings
up through the floorboards
and shooting in the zone
above the rooftops
in a radar’s sweeping arc.
Tag: magic
Ghost, circa 1882.
Where to, miss?
the air whispered
the horses’ bells peeled by the winds
jingling, the horses ready to leave
I turned my neck a little
to see if they were there—
was I ready for a ride?
—but the driver had already turned away
leaving kicked-up dust
of moon-smoke in his wake.
Garden.
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.
Magical: Day One 