Everything

You may recall

in years to come

this feeling, this place –

home, yes,

(we all think of home)

but I mean home right now,

today;

at some vague, future time

something like these sweet smells,

brandy-soaked fruit (Christmas cakes)

and the lingering memory of breakfast’s bacon,

might bring you back to now,

you might hear the comforting melancholy

of winter jazz playing quietly on a radio,

and recall the way the winter sun infused everything

as it slanted through a filter of snow-clouds and bare branches,

you might feel the deep warmth of home,

of us, here, together.

*

Oh, right now

I know it’s just another day

a regular, lazy Sunday

a day of idle movies

of someone somewhere cooking –

peripheral,

hardly worth noting.

*

But if ever you ask me then

whether I remember now,

I will smile slightly and say

I remember, and

it was everything.

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Flower Power

just one leaf
one petal
in this whitewashed snow-world
just one sign of life
to break the monotone;

head to the earth
I feel no force
hear no beat
but I whisper anyway,
willing the first shoots to unfurl
the smallest buds to pop
to turn their rainbow faces skyward
and begin recolouring this cold world

NaPoWriMo day 8 is flower day.

The bleakest months

In winter’s bleakest dark-day months
when winds whip in from churning briny sea
and wraith-clouds storm and race each other –
grey shades scudding o’er ragged countryside –
ravens soar and call for war into the solitary void;

when only rocks will shelter sheep from rain,
tumbled down through browning gorse and broom,
still stonefenced pastures hold their brilliant green
from white-dressed hills down to steely waves,
and fog-kissed leaves sparkle in the gloam;

Those cruel months would call me out to stand,
hands skyward,
to watch and feel and breathe the power of the land.

 

 

The cruelest months, I find, are the most beautiful. NaPoWriMo day 4.

 

 

Beyond the pale

Miles of back country roads roll on
past brown, still fields, iced lakes, snow-feathered trees.
Motel after motel, we mark the distances between towns,
between ourselves, between then and now.
Blueberry stands hunch, improbable, road-side;
left over from another season
their bright blue-washed walls
echo at us across the colourless terrain
from a fairyland time suspended,
just beyond reach.

Detritus

Bare trees rattle their bones against white cloud sky

Clusters of leaves and twigs – abandoned nests – fill the in between 

The animals have fled, birds flown

And all that remains are the cawing clawing birds of darkness

Large and black they clutch their prizes, crackling detritus, in the emptiness.

It’s strange to post something I started writing at home in the winter, now that I’m down south, but also kind of nice in a distant way.