Trinity of suns.
Morning, afternoon and eve.
Each cast their light
Fanning their own shades of brightness
Spanning our hours, our fathers' hours,
Our children's hours.
There is comfort here, now, in the solid stone,
The unadorned simplicity.
And , if we pause a while,
We realise that
Time is our only constant.
Linking to Sunday Muse Blogspot. Thank you Carrie - your images continue to inspire. http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/
She only came third Even though she had heard Her ideas were one in a million. So what was the deal, No reward for her zeal – Her head-dress was pure vaudevillian.
Its an asp, not a hen, She complained to the men, Who had said they were looking for class. But I’m queen of the nile, Egyptian desire, I should have come first, damn and blast.
Perhaps if you’d tried An attempt at a smile You would have been in with a shot. But wearing a pout Ain’t what it’s about And impresses us diddly squat.
I saw a whistling ghost at dusk. A small whirl of leaves sucked up behind him. A ladder slung over his shoulder, A lamp in his hand And the glow of light after light Hung in his wake.
I pressed my face against the pane at dawn. But all I saw were the lights Go out, one by one.
She sings her tale as lyrically as any opera. From the mountains, where breath is ice and air is thin, she skips an elaborate path, a trilling coloratura over rocks as worn as time. Distracted on her way by willowed inlets and the bel canto of romantic wallows where love is lost and found and lost again. Until the grand finale – that final leap into clouded oblivion – as her aria lifts higher than a falcon before she succumbs, her fate written, falling to a clash of cymbals and the crash of rapturous applause.
Above, an infinity of blue – deep and still and featureless. Until, a distant tchacking heralds a tide of jackdaws, spiralling in a whirlpool of flight, a helix of black morse code, dots and dashes revealing the invisible, like dust brushed onto fingerprints, nature’s imagers.
Linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot, where Carrie is focussing on all things feathered this week. http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/. After seeing the prompt, I sat outside in the shade with my coffee and saw a swathe of hundreds of jackdaws overhead. They caught a thermal and twirled higher and higher. It was wonderful to watch.
Abandonment reeks with story. Seeping through the rips and rust, the shattered glass and cracks, more defined than mere craquelure, the what once was remains.
Do we mind it? Take time to read it, hear it? We should. All tales are worth an ear.
Linking this to Carrie’s Sunday Muse Blogspot. Carrie has provided some wonderfully evocative images of abandonment for this week’s inspiration. Go to http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/ to see more images, and read all the creative responses.
I say ‘dine al fresco’, but you say ‘fuori’. I order a latte, but taste milk on my lips. I ask ‘coulda my pizza hava mora pepperoni’, you spread my hot meat feast with sweet pepper strips.
You talk about shooting, so I think you’re sporty, and talk about golf, or the little I know. Then you get out your camera, a Nikon a-forty, and ask me to take off my sweater, real slow.
It turns out that waving my hands while I’m speaking, or shouting, or adding an a to each word, won’t work on a date when it’s romance I’m seeking, its ridiculosa and simply absurd.
Men of few words Then one of these lads could be for you. Apply in the usual manner (one apple pie per applicant – traditional or upside-down, dollop of cream on the side).
Lustred jewels and promises draw our eye, Halt us in our tracks. Spellstopt by words we foolishly took for wisdom. They’re no more than paste baubles. A cheap trick. Yank on the fraying string and watch them skittering down the path one by one.