The small details: fence post tops, frills on skirts, smiles in place of frowns. Each day, as though we might know that voice, the flowers grow, the grasses bend, the breeze blows over the meadow. The search engine searches, I sit back and sigh, if only life was catalogued more clearly then the file would already be found.
More routes to the ancient and modern: songstress, poet, meditations muse and mistress, her timbres rattle with the dust of gold. One strum of lute, one clap of hand on taut steel wired gut, one tap of foot on the reflex peddle of a soft bass drum, one whisper that wails to it's soulful crescendo. That moment swept over, to be lived no more, not by me, not by you, not even by your lover nor by any other once vainglorious scoundrel.
Thus the rivers flow, paced by the seasons; in spate, in drought, ever onwards, ever falling towards the moon-filled oceans. All of this to keep the loins anxieties at a distance, all of this to quell the rising flames of those once fierce and lustful emotions, all of this to close off, to close down the silent witness.
The small details; a man-made rill, silk embroidered pyjamas, transference where once there was doubt.
This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues
Available as ebook from Kindle or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from poetryshop
