by the river
I bend and worship
The sky is grey to the left, blue to the right. The day is cold. It was raining, heavily, early in the morning, and the air is washed. The landscape has been washed with January sunlight, and cold rain.
The hills to the left are showing their folds like the most magnificent eastern princess, fat, sensual, curvaceous: lying back and waiting to be touched, to be admired. To be fed grapes by gasping, drooling admirers.
To the left, the sky is dark. a rainbow cuts through the sky, illuminating my passage.
The sky lights up as the road climbs the hill. The day starts to break.
The cloud starts to break with the breaking of the morning, a slice of peach golden apricot, god golden apricot, streaking through the sky, and breaking the morning.
Dreams are eluding me.
Not the night time sort, wild fragments of story-telling from my beautiful sub-conscious mind.
No, I mean the daytime sort of dreams, those that come clearly defined and neatly delineated, the things others talk of dreaming about, dreaming of, planning for, working to make happen.
I go to that place in my mind, in my heart, where I think the dreams might be, and there is nothing. Silence. A blank screen.
I write, to myself, and some others whom I trust, that I feel lost without dreams, disconnected from the world of dreamers, puzzled by their dreaming, disconcerted by the absence of my own. Continue reading
My eyes fill with
the rolling fields of January,
old fort hills and soft muddy farmland
hilltop trees mark
the place you know is home:
tears of recognition,
dotted all over the horizon.
Carved out of one of my favourite poem making techniques: writing a piece of prose (in this case, about the journey home) and then cutting the lines up (literally) and moving them around, with further chopping if necessary, to form the shape, feel and sound of a poem.