Tuesday, 27 June 2017

Parka (12th March)

Just half an hour ago. Tired of too much time indoors. It might be the right weather to stay in and enjoy my own company but for a bit I decide to do so outside. The view from my window is green and some rays of sun push through the impending dark clouds while gulls announce the beginning of something new.

I open my wardrobe and pick out my parka. On it goes and out I go. Through the door and up the mountain. Damp and humid is the air. I can feel it about to break. Something in the atmosphere. The sheep and horses know it too. Their instinct is more sharpened than mine. And as I return from the pinnacle I run past the collie smiling and singing. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. By now it is bucketing down and I can hear the tall eucalyptus trees towering over me sway and dance to the song I am joining in with. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Remember me to the wind and the air. Inside a feeling that had been weeded out by the daily dredging of man-made clockwork machinery tuned in to the wild scent of a human animal. Taming the beast's yearning within. I smile. I grin wildly. As a child would, I parade down the road. I make my way back home. The taste of joy fills my insides and the gift of the gods has washed my hair. On the other side of the door they don't understand. Their only comments are to do with towels and other such things. I get dry and sober up slightly. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

The Pane



You danced ephemeral
donned in promises muttered
to myself
quietly
And I wonder why

I want to join in your stream
Want to be one
Now is not the time
for we trickled down the pane
Crossed paths

Oh but a faint reminder of
"Is this warmth forever?"

Image result for window pane drops

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Is that you on your way?

Rough and sturdy
The bark meets the dusty soil
at an almost invisible seam


The drumming beat
of a slow crawling rush
Means a rite of time


Endless like the crackling
wrinkles of the wise one
Unashamed pride
in its powerfully carved lines


Wild and unabashed
by December it is striked
Small green hands
They float, they fly


Cold sun shines through white sheets
Translucent blades
down the stream jet blow against my side

Is that you on your way?

Image result for forest

Patterns and their texture

Hearing the soft soothing sound of laughter I wonder where my guts will take me next. I remember times past and get ready to throw myself into the deep end. I am throwing myself into the deep end as I run my fingers through life's intricate patterns and realise how I shall never live these patterns again unless I do so now.


Their texture is rough yet appealing. Sharp at times, though forgiving. And when the texture is sweet, its rewarding kisses know no boundaries.

Image result for flysch