WANTED: space to live
to whom does this all belong?
who is it decides?
~
n.b. Land and property is the debate we need to have.
CLP 10/06/2022
on paper
Tag Archives: Home
Aisling of the millpond
unseasonable warmth
petite clouds
white buds pinned to infinite blue
fine grass blades grass by the millpond
prick my pale winter skin
my flat weight crumples daisies
in cool shade
of the willow’s weeping
tumble of the waterwheel
low hum of bumble bees
chiffchaff
chiffchaff
chiffchaff
with eyes closed I see all
the birds I hear
from within this sonorous wall
soft notes
a woman’s song
so tired
so tired
so tired
my head so heavy it cannot turn
my eyelids stuck down by pinks and blues
my arms so heavy they will not move
my legs feel bound they cannot run
my voice clasped tight within my throat
I hear her singing
she sings of lilac
yet to bloom
she sings of lambs
not yet sprung
she sings of hedgerows
nestlings yet to fledge
she sings of the stream
yet to flood
she sings of oak
still to leaf
she sings of the summer
yet to burn
she sings of two lovers
yet to meet
she sings of harvest
we’ve yet to reap
she sings of apples
we’ll collect
she sings of mists
that will rise from dew
she sings of the plough
that will tear the earth
she sings of crows
that will draw in the night
she sings of frost
that will veil the soil
she sings of the fireplace
as autumn leaves
so tired
so tired
so tired
slowly I wake
remembering
how far I must go
before I finally reach
my home
~
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Twenty-five prompt: write an aisling.
CLP 25/04/2022
on time
vomitorium
expels people into street
return home to what?
~
CLP 10/02/2022
on home
accumulation
utensils and memories
comfort, food, some dust
~
CLP. 04/12/2021
August viii
crisp sun sharp blue heat
this southern sky long since missed
now untouchable
~
CLP 14/08/2021
Dream #21
heavy rain’s half-time shuffle on the roof
mixes with the jazz ostinato beat
of towering street lamps flicking by
wheels slip over pools along the carriageway
sheets of spray from trucks misting view
red rear lights, pairs of dazzling white
approach, recede
dashboard indicators green
there’s a song replaying on the radio
today becomes yesterday
00:00
as soon as tomorrow becomes now
vehicles stretch apart, further apart, disappear
then this is the last one tracing the road
deep into the city’s orange glow
pointless waiting at crossroads for change
illuminated arrows pointing home
weighed down by the return of gravity
I step through the door
the post on the hall floor
dates how long I’ve been away
a web loose-hanging at the window
holds small black silk bundles
where the spider’s been making hay
~
CLP 18/06/2021
On Water XLI
as safe as houses
riding out life’s peaks and troughs
rowing with the flow
~
CLP 18/05/2021
L3 (Day 30): Betula Pendula
Along with buddleja, the silver birch, (betula pendula) is often the first tree to set down roots and become established in the most unlikely situations. It grows fast and its white bark seems to split under the stress of holding the slender trunk together as it shoots up. It quickly becomes a tree of ornamental interest, with its beautifully shaped, serrated leaves, that turn from soft green to shimmering autumn gold before being shed.
Its adaptability and aesthetic appeal makes it an attractive specimen to plant when landscaping newly developed building plots in temperate climates.
Even a tree so slight in appearance brings a sense of permanence to a location. It breaks up the urban landscape, provides colour and natural shade in summer. Its leaves play with the light, like the sea, they dance to the vicissitudes of the weather and in winter their absence allows what light and warmth there is to pass through.
In contrast I sense that I have lived my recent years as if I am a tumbleweed.
Wikipedia states: A tumbleweed is a structural part of the above-ground anatomy of a number of species of plants, a diaspore that, once it is mature and dry, detaches from its root or stem, and rolls due to the force of the wind.
This windblown existence is how the plant distributes its seed and reproduces. I do not see any correlation between my life and this aspect of the tumbleweed life cycle, but the detachment at the point of ‘maturity’, the hollowed out centre and endless shifting on the breath of a breeze is me and this cannot continue.
For a wanderer like me, the idea of being able to adjust and settle and make a home is to be respected, but is it possible? Can a tumbleweed become a silver birch?
~
CLP 04/02/2021
On Memory xi
Nothing could stop us
when we let the music play
danced on ’til we dropped
~
CLP 14/01/2021
On Winning
To be home again
and to be part of something
means today everything seems
possible
~
CLP 06/12/2020
Voyage des Mots 