I wait on the edge with my ear to the ground and listen to the insects as they scuttle around, boring holes, digging their own graves. Spinning ropes to hang themselves with dooms. I've seen it all before, with this evil eye. They come and batter my shore: these poor lost fools, but I'm a jinxed down and out of Angels spinning fables and toying with fates. Turning tables and breaking down gates. Looking at dead souls through the looking glass, my ear to the grass. Listening to the insects, hearing them thinking, talk, feed and bleed. As they travel, stalk to stalk, cargo'ed with greed, germs and seed.
So nature's beautiful palette of colours intrudes into this bitter sight, among the corn. A spider has ridden the sky tonight. Ariadne's tangled fluffy webs speak of her passing. I cannot repress this vision. I can't turn my head away to face despair as the air discreetly darkens into sublime pinks and purple hues above the sentinel chimneys. And I look back to myself, in a snow field at three o'clock in the morning. Spinning round and round as tiny flakes encompassed the hopes and dreams of my overjoyed being. Magical towers taking shape out of non-existence in the mind field's horizon distance. Inexorably I recall the falling blossom of a day by the river. Graceful swans who've escorted me on the long journey, to and fro, that eventually bought me here: home. I see the starfield of that lane and an immense moon dwarfing me and the trivial dreams I keep safe: the carnival in my head. The tiny span of my life. I recall speaking of this to a toddler, walking hand in hand, trying to portray my vision in terms she'd understand. I think of a land breathing, a hill, a dog's great escapes, mother nature, her own child with paints and within this whirligig of emotions exists something real and true.
Then I hear your voice. The soft one in which you spoke, evokes the child in the lane. The tremor the maelstrom of terror, laid bare, here, in the first stanza. We share. Your distance is the towers of the snow-haze horizon, taking shape out of non-existence. The need of yours', which you deny me, makes me want to climb through the roof of the sky and fly to be near you. To hold you safe if you want to weep. To stand sentinel while sleep wraps you in her gentle embrace and take just a fragment of the pain away, for only an instant, and give just a shred back of what you gave me, eyes shining into the dawn.
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