stops and starts –
the way change banks up,
unnoticed, then breaks through suddenly,
cartwheeling. Boys become men.
A woman dies. A leaf falls.
The rain starts – did you feel a drop?
I think I did – and then we’re running
under cover. Fruit ripens.
Empty streets – are they the future?
or the past? I couldn’t say.
Endless blue skies, birds singing,
spring slipping into summer
slipping into autumn. What
are memories worth? They cling,
they float away, they sink,
ice-pops melting stickily,
the soil opening to take
the cherry coloured sugary
A pushchair and a rainbow-coloured dress,
sunshine on water. Piles of books.
Fluttering through my fingers,
scraps of something, anything.
Scratching the words on rock,
pressing them into clay,
the art of writing onto vellum,
parchment, the tap-tapping,
the keyboard that I’m using now,
the notebook that I scribble in,
what are we doing?
A horse drawn on a wall in semi-darkness
Tell me a story. I’m all out of words.
For Brendan at earthweal – thinking about evolution and change and stuff like that.
Red is still red –
the pulsing beat of it,
bloated with significance –
blue is still blue –
with ice, shimmering,
the steady drip drip drip
Here at the edge
everything is open.
De at dVerse is asking us to quadrille on the word “change”.
We float here in these golden days between the seasons, like gossamer drifting across the garden. Summer is fading and drifting gently into autumn. Flowers blanch and burn; seed heads form, altering the architecture of the borders between lane and field; leaves change their pigment- from greens that have dulled over August, to golds and oranges and pinks, a mellow patchwork stitched from flame and fire. Some mornings, we wake to find mist floating milk white, between us and the other side of the valley – as if we are alone, cut off from the clashing noises and colours of the world. There are berries everywhere – bright crimsons and purples singing from the hedges, calling us and the birds. There are apples – acid green, russet, shockingly yellow, dull red – to be held and examined. We store up treasures before the winter – sloes turning gin into liquid ruby; jams and jellies, jewels piled into jars; golden heaps of apples. We wait for the world to turn beneath us, carrying us into winter.
By mist, drifts through autumn leaves
Gold echoing gold.
Toni has opened up the bar at dVerse and has asked us to write about change. At the moment it feels like we are in the borderland between summer and autumn – so much change happening all around me. I love this time of year.