knobbled roots push through the old road
down below, the stream
and ducks looking vaguely like old shoes floating
I walked near my house and in a corner of suburbia came across a road that was made more than a century ago – only a portion unburied by the years, rugged with scoria. A new bridge escorts it now across a stream and on up beneath pines which must have been planted about the time the road was built. If in any place time was stretched thin, it would be there.
Red like leaves you streak across my sky and if I woke up now I could not tell if you are coming or going. Slice wide open the sky and let the rain through the cracks. You are the rain, speak to me. I strain to hear your thoughts as if I could.
The sky changes its colour like a neon sign as the sun withdraws. It’s time for the moon. The wind leaves, knowing. The world weirds.
I wrap around me the dusk
reluctant to release the night,
shut it out with our electric world
drowning the souls of trees.
I kneel before the night
hanging my dreams on the stars
Shriven by the rippled
singing of crickets.
Some evenings call to you, and sometimes you take the call. This one my ears were tuned for and I sat in the silence of the end of day and let my soul go feral.
Reblogged from my other site, Chaos Girl & the Real World
As an incipient writer, it’s a thrill to get people to read and enjoy your work, and to get it published is kind of the ultimate thrill really. You know, for us bookish types who don’t go in for the jumping off bridges sort of thrill. And so with my little heart bursting with pleasure, I can say my piece on growing up in Africa has been published in the August issue of The Woven Tale Press <sighs happily>.
You can find it on page 23 of the latest Woven Tale Press along with the mind-children of a number of other arty types, written, painted and otherwise formed.