Place To Page

Only the orange wilted

I myself was ok

And so too the crow

Only the moon waned

To gift a giant sun

With welcome winter warmth

Listen then to the stories

About this quiet phase of life

Going from place to page

Not knowing, nor being shown

Not owning, and not being owned

This season, nor next neither

The gull and the magpie

Are out walking, or should I say strutting

The lady with the stick, she strides on

I am here

I sure am no longer falling

As the walkers in the walking group walk on

Life, And Death

In that moment

I felt immortal

For one second

For one minute

For one hour

For that day

But not

For that night

Because, as darkness fell

I was on the cusp

All of my energies galvanised

For one final burst

I never felt such totality

Every muscle, every synapse

Every vein, every bone

Every nerve end tingled

Yet I know, yes, I do know

That I am not immortal

I shall wither and die

As will every other ever born

There will be no second coming

No new life, now the lessons have been learned

What has gone before was not a practice

Though, of what lays ahead, no one knows

Various Variabilities

Her eyes fall on the red flag

Her sister’s faith dies away

What her swirling thoughts say

Is no more than volcanoes erupting

The distant cries act as kisses

Each headpiece thus adorned with love

There is no heed of the watchful wolf whistles

Only the silence stills the dancers

Beneath her gown her feet skip dainty pretty

Beneath her favour her heart leaps

The fear, too far away to shake her

She sways her soul to stray no more

A hundred shades of grey

Bring out the rose vermillion

A hundred cloths of ample daylight

Bring the scarlet to the freesia and the fuchsia

Why Couldn’t You

It was a landscape

In which I was settled

Every day

I re-assembled the fields

After the farmer’s work was done

Then, one morning

After another pagan ritual

It was I who gathered

The remains of the dying embers

Was I the first to rise

Or had others seen

The dark turn into light

Watched the foil tops being fitted

And the churns taken away

The snow

Was not here yet

But it would be calling

Play with me

Play with me

I am your nemesis

Waiting On

I was already out there

And several times

I had been rejected

I knew of rejection

And doubt, its not yet

Too apparent bedfellow

But I was loud

Also foolish; yes

I pressed on

Unrelenting, relentless

I had many sores

Still to pick

Or to pour over

Stood at the bar

Watching you dancing

Waiting for the interval

Or the intermission

As it’s called in the movies

Where I would

Most definitely

Have bought you a vanilla ice-cream

Of course you could have refused it

But why would you

It wasn’t for anything