Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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A cat, a snake, a grill - a tale  from Route 66

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Walking May

Walking 

the flower 

garden, 

this opening 

of spring, 

listening 

to birdsong,

the wind 

and trees

that sing, 

for the sky 

is so blue 

a blessing

this May,

for June 

is approaching 

and summer

will be here

For ever 

and more.

For Today.

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Spring in the Garden of May.

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Even if I…

Even if 

the sun,

I feel 

were blind, 

I would like 

to hold 

your face 

in the quiet 

of my hands, 

and trace 

just once,

my fingers 

upon

the tributaries 

and streams, 

of the life 

that has become

the beautiful 

you, 

to feel 

a thousand stories,

journeys 

and emotions,

joining 

a stream,

a flow,

of stars,

to a river

of journeys, 

that I cherish

in wonder

that I feel,

in the music

of living

and life,

that is

born 

in me

with you.

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For if

there is,

truly,

a Spring 

in winter 

let me drink 

then,

deeply of your 

beautiful eyes 

to see the dawn 

of morning blue,

for laughter 

is the sunlight

of March

that rises,

beautifully 

in the blossom

of life

that is

simply being

and walking,

the path

with you.

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They

He pulled. Felt her hand in his. Remembering her taste. Her smell. The way her body cleaved into his. His into hers.

Mustiness. 
Earth. 
Wonder. 
Urgency.

The earth crumbled around him. It matted his arms, legs and lower back. 

His hair. 
His beard. 

He sat up. Felt the dull ache, the throb of life to be given fill his awakening being with her. 

To her.

She could see him now. Lifting himself out of sleep. His own dream wrapped around him. She released his hand, reached over and kneeled beside him. She cleared the soil, earth, pebbles and stones from his  feet, his legs. Saw his rising. Spread her warming hands and cleared away the earth and winter from his torso, his arms. 

His eyes were still closed. She caressed his face. His beard. And combed his hair with her fingertips. His breathing, before, once shallow in intervals of time, slow and season, deepened as he trembled with the beginnings of power that infused him.

His eyes filled her soul with his form. Half known. Half remembered. A sense of knowing and possession filled her heart and senses.

They joined as the sky lifted.He the earth. She its Spring.They pushed and pulled and bound and knotted the spaces born in life and time between them. 

A circle of birds arose. 

Like leaves re born from yesteryear. They too combined in runes and patterns remembered long and hard, instinctively opening, outside, inside, and up and to the light above them.

And in memories, coupling and murmurations, she and he, the two,  entwined again and again, the great pulse of life, 

Again and again, they lifted seas and sons; the cycles born of time and place between them.

It began to rain.

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February Afternoon

The sun sets

long shadows,

cast the distance 

upon the broken 

garden wall

But amongst 

the cracks,

the silence,

beneath 

the settling

dusk 

of late afternoon 

A blackbird

sings, his voice

catching 

my tears 

one by one

as softly, 

gently 

the rain begins

to fall.

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S(he)

He was awakening. The stiffness of sleep held him tight within its arms. The winter stars were wrapped in sheathes of time about his legs and lower body. From somewhere outside of himself he could feel a growing sense of urgency. A warmth. A remembering. He needed to remember. Wanted to remember. But a great fog of darkness still held him. Whispered to him. Wanted him to remain within it.

Somewhere. Somewhere.

‘Here.Here.’ He could sense his own voice outside of himself. A movement beyond his own vision. A feeling. No more. 

Shapes formed around him. He felt a tightening within him. A gnarled, knotted network of strength that rooted him down began to pull up from deep beneath him. Answering a deeper call from the pressing darkness around him.

There it was again. And again. A pulse. A throb. A release of heat into what he could feel awakening above him.

‘I must move,’ the thought, if that was what it was, an impulse, a command, came into his consciousness. He felt the pull upwards. Strong. Ancient. Remembering. 

He knew he lay between roots, trunk, branch, leaves to be and the great emptiness of sky.

Something was tracing upon his still bound hands. Patterns. Repeated. And again.

‘Runes,’ the shapes, became sounds. The sounds, familiar, became repeated, and grew into words. The darkness around him began to thin. Began to dissipate. Light, for that was what he remembered, slipped between the stars and spread in warmth around him.

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She (1)

She was not sure when it started. A cold day perhaps. Long shadows. Early evening. She could feel in her memories the wind blow cool from the mountains around the valley. A shiver of possibilities across the lengthening dusk.

Maybe it was then. When the first stars blinked across the skies, the first street lights flickered and then failed.

‘Yes. Perhaps it was then,’ she thought to herself.

She closed her eyes. Lay still and quiet. Felt once again, the first time it touched her.

Fingertips across her face. A breath through her untangled, uncombed hair. Two hands like ripples along each side of her spine.

She felt naked. Known. Not wanted. 

Needed. 

Essential to something outside of herself. It was not a violation. More a justification of her being there at that moment and now.

A now that seemed to stretch from then until the now. The here where she lay under the freshly mown grass,the open blue sky and the rim of trees that nodded and whispered in the late spring breeze.

‘Yes,’ she admitted quietly to herself once again, ‘this, what is now was born from then.’

She reached out with her hand and blindly sought his own. She felt through each new blade of grass, felt the soil crumble, warm and fecund through her fingers, smelled him close to her, his breathing, his mustiness and then found his. She caressed the palm of his hand. Followed the lines and marks, the calloused knots and branches of experiences that were written in his outstretched fingers.

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A Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy and nod 

in the baking sunlight, radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops, and, as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard flies 

and swoops overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like time, 

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

The memories 

and whispers 

of former times 

gather and press 

around me, 

shaping, waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

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