Up above, from tall, invisible trees, two birds call-and-answered in delicate, dawn-like song. There was a crisp freshness to the air that like the birds spoke of morning. The sky was the shade of holiday-beginnings — of taxis caught under early-morning skies. On this topsy-turvy day, tilting at the turn of the seasons, I could almost smell the blossom promised by the bare, sticky branches of the neat street-trees. Their austere nude winter limbs were soon to be transformed into fleeting beauties, dressed in sweet pink tulle, white lace, and glinting emerald buds. In the garden, winter-blooming bulbs perfumed the air, sweet and cloying. They’d pushed themselves inevitably onwards, upwards, through the soil and the old weathered wood-chips and the nights’ frosts. I’d watched them growing, determined and mysterious, and wondered who had planted them and how long ago. Once close enough to the sun they sprung into tight white clusters of pretty, simple flowers and bravely sang of spring while the winter raindrops clung coldly to the air.
Tag: memory
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.
Weather Turning.
The wisteria had completely died away for the winter and was now just a mess of bare, stick-like tendrils grasping to the house. But other flowers had been more stubborn – the roses were still bravely opening new flirtatious buds into the cold and the lavender trees, neat and thick, stood staunchly. The summer-dried and now rain-soaked leaves smelt like French fields, sun-drenched and stretching out flat beneath a low, blue sky. It seemed some hasty gardener had been through the bushes, for the path was strewn with freshly clipped lavender branches and scattered flower-heads. They and the cut ends of the tree’s branches were leaking fragrance into the air and infusing the raindrops with oil. The rain broke-up the air willy-nilly so that I caught the scent only in quick snatches before it was washed or wind-blown away. As I walked down the path the cat-scratches on the backs of my hands brushed against the bristle-like dead-heads and stung, risen and puffed, in fine slivers of pink through almost translucent skin.
Legacy.
If we are all to die
the cornfields left quite cornless
the wheat-fields, withered, dry
the oceans without fishes
the waterline too high
if we too are just drifters
we are subject to the tides
can be drowned beneath the waters
as tempers and temperatures rise
if we are to go under
then first let’s reach the skies
let us bathe in truest moonlight
hear the sweetest lullabies
let us drift in currents wondrous
let us dance together tight
let us say we won’t go quietly
let us say we lived our lives
but in the noise still listen
still learn to read the signs
still stop to think and keep our heads
heed the worries of the night
stop to listen to our children
because they are getting wise
we said they were the future
they've seen right through that lie
we said children are the future
so let us, please, just try!
to understand that we are
as much the free, as much the truly wild
as fishes in the waters
as birds on brilliant skies
as mushrooms blooming nightly
as winging butterflies
as great old eucalyptus
as flower, stem, and vine
and let us please remember
that we are all to die
and children are the future
please let us only try!
to leave the oceans cleaner
to leave the jungles high
to leave the doorways open
to leave the windows wide
let us read the books and write them
keep true memory live
let us hope that there’s forgiveness
that there’s an afterlife
let us hope some higher spirit
has kindness on its mind
hope we haven’t quite lost contact
lost grip, lost voice, lost sight
when we forgot that we’re earth’s children
we lost our power, lost our right
to tell the future’s children
that we know better than the light
know why it breaks in early morning
better than the night-stars bright
that we know better than this planet
because we have our satellites
have worlds here in our pockets
have access day and night
to endless lies or knowledge
to living byte-by-byte
we’ve forgotten it’s not normal
to find love by swiping right
forgotten how to speak the truth
without hatred, without spite
forgotten fear begets regret
fosters war, and famine, flight
forgotten that we all are one
that we needn’t take a side
we needn’t call each other, other
choose only left or right
we needn’t think we are alone
needn’t think in terms of might
then maybe, only maybe
we’ll find safety in the golden flickered light
of fire and easy company
find what our DNA desires
find common pain, and common scars
from common wounds of life
and from those bonds, build something
that makes our time worthwhile.
Mike, the Smoking Monstera.
incense streams smoke
up along the stem
clinging to a branch
and is diffused
through the leaves
rising in ladders
wish-washed
and drawn upward
through their holes
Memory.
We sat underneath the scant young eucalypts
the dry mowed bull-grass itching on my bare knee-backs.
The Room All Filled With Sand.
Sea-swept drifts
relentless
had drifted from the shore
to fill the room
through windows
til it was a room no more.
Dipping Into Pockets.
picked up
an old coat
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
a used ticket
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
unstamped letters
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
useless habits
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
restless dreams
dipped
hands in pockets
(it’s just another day)
Spires in the Evening.
Choral voices pierced the ceiling of the sky.
Times Between.
in the long silences
—the spaces—
traced in silver trails traversed
those moments
of long looking
in silence
and with thought dispersed
these spaces
of sensation
colliding with a world inverse
the moments
worn as fragments
fracture
and in time reverse
Magical: Day One 