it's not akin to the memory of the natural world

it's not akin to the memory of the natural world. born knowing what to do and when. i wonder who knows of the mountains i would move and waters upon which i would walk. coccoon like you sleep whilst morning forms beads of condensation on the glass. last night i got angry that you'd left the tea on the counter. there are times when neither of us understand my frustrations. friction combined with parallel movement. rubbing against the world and each other. a slow softening of edges. with sparks.

some things and their definition

between connotations and definitions your launguage is your own. ideas and words suffused meanings you ordained. define the idea of home. within it's walls scratched and spat out a map of dreams. your life of heres and elsewheres containing not a million vanishing points only redirections. to be aware of the landmarks and your wingspan. to lie in the bed you made in the belly of the wolf, cradling your fragility without having lost your bearings completely. to hold with tenderness the hands upon which you laid a kiss. for all your hermitry and independence to still long for and seek your kinfolk and tribe. and even to be one shade lighter than blue and still more beautiful than the day i first laid eyes on you.

I.
talismans and resurrection.

from top to toe and tip to tip

- unimaginable possibility.

 

speaking of night visits

and early morning songs

lay low in the absence of colour.

 

i love you the only way i know how.

also teal against slate.

 

moving inland and further out.


II.

at the end of life to have been the poem,

 

to have mastered the music

made with the movement

of bone and skin and voice.

 

to possess, at the end, the desire

to leave those bones behind

and commit ourselves to memory.

 

casting shadow and light.

clouds threatening to burst.

sixty granite steps to stand in the centre of the circle, the circus, remembering my love of astrolabes and clockwork before moving into green and being greeted by a brown dog when stopping to weave a leaf the perfect colour of lust into the leather. a symphony of colour. the rub of gravel, small stones underfoot. generally grey has such negative connotations, but from feather pale through to deepest pewter it soothes and prompts a dreamlike nostalgia. tonight flickering candles lead the dance of light around the room in this little house wrapped in darkest blue.

the perfect kind of sunday

pray and prey. differences and simliarities

the wind whistles and the trees breathe their paper language laying gifts most beautiful at feet. the world in it's most naked and natural form speaks. i tuck it all in my pocket like music for a rainy day, for those rare occassions when water needs accompaniment. the tracks in the dirt led me here. my feet fit the hollows and i feel the weight of his body slung across her (which are my) shoulders. the way it has always been. it seems evolution only got so far. the blood moon came and went. the rabbit leaps across the moon and for the time inbetween we grow into ourselves, make our way through the deep and the shallows, if we're lucky feel the rub of skin, belly to back beneath layers but warmed by our own fires, write our stories on the walls. i wonder if our ancestors slept through much simpler dreams. wonder whether the hands into which we pour ourselves have changed. "i dont understand", he says and i wonder whether we are even supposed to.

regardless of form, always this.

a list of this morning. oh, and a painted elephant

so far this morning has involved....
. a room of pale pink light.

. chopin's nocturne in c minor.
. an unfortunate eyebrow situation.

. tea stained skies behind glass.
. an aching body wrapped in soft.

. finger-reading the texture of trees.

. tales of baba yaga and the ents.

. observing the seductively slow undressing of branches.

. the soft clang of metal on stone.

. feeding on colour and pattern.
. nourishing a love of detail.
. the quiet beauty of hammershoi.
. longing for minimalist simplicity.
. contemplating a home made christmas.
. embracing melodious contrasts.
. the knowledge that last night's dishes need attention,
  but oh well, let's take a picture..

  

1.10pm. wednesday. and not just any wednesday

the october sun is warm through the window as it pools on my lap. downstairs the front door slams. most likely the postman. i wish more people were more gentle. i hold my hand to the light that outlines my fingers in gold, watch a magpie watching a squirrel on it's repetative mission of scurrying up and down the rowan storing food for winter in an abandoned nest. the day is so still it crystalises each sound... birdsong, a ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, the distant movement of traffic. there are few clouds today, but i worry they'll tear as they pass over the cluster of spires piercing the sky. for whatever reason though the churches perforating the skyline reassure me. of what i've yet to fathom. earlier i kicked my way, childlike, through the fallen leaves along the river. a literal and psychologically abstract journey. and yet the wisdom of the circle. even now the shadows move imperceptibly across the floor.