Grey

 

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Grey…. I am not sure about this…….it’s more a pewter, but dull….

dull ……. oh…. so ….. dull…..”Dull as ditch water”, a grump riddled parent used to bark…… not about the weather, but about some creative piece I had written or drawn……

Dull – as – ditch – water………

I remember winters then. I remember snowdrifts, sledges, being pulled, but being scared, snowballs in the face ….. getting frozen toes and  jolly red cheeks…..soaking wet socks, the crisp nakedness of undisturbed fallen snow; where has it all gone?
oh, how I loved winter, then.

It’s this grey….. this grey that hangs around like a splodge of badly mixed paints, looming, ready to tip all over my world… but it never happens….. not today anyway…… it’s just grey……

Like my mood: incubating….. not dull, no…….never that.

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Longing.

Longing

I long to go where the white geese go,
with wings like magnets, drawn outward
and onward by the wild.

I dream to climb the tallest redwood I can find
and scan for miles ‘cross sprawling lands,
pellucid, translucent- rough and sassy seas.

I yearn to see, under my bare, worn feet,
a constant sense of a glorious, Spring,
like the giggling stream over tawny stones
where Celandines shine and mossy banks shall sing.

I ache to hear the Cuckoo call
from distant coppice in rough, raised field,
where Barn Owls too-wit to their other’s too-woo
as sounds of Debussy’s harmonies yield
such light, in the fullness of the orb, for you.

For my desire, shall forever be,
that you alone shall pass, with me.
And there, between our quickened lips
does raise the breath of passion’s warmth,
these timeless, ticking, holy hands,
where life’s encumbrances melt
and Love now, magnificently stands.

Till then, my dreaming shall so deep and languid be,
of Hope for all and all that Life gives back to me.

Fantasy of an Old Girl

Fantasy of an Old Girl

There is a playground
in my comedic soul,
where heart and bone,
muscle and blood
come together like
Cow jumping over Moon….
pirouetting like a deer.
Little dogs do always laugh
when I lollop on by,
trying to catch a
dishy old dish and
spooning round spoon….
Ah…. an ageing old girl
catches the tail of that moon;
It’s the quickest way to heaven.

 

Dedicated to Peter Thompson, The Old Boy


I Believe……

I Believe…….

I am a big ‘Little Me’.
I inhabit a large body,
a body of size, a body housing
a big Spirit and a minimal mind.
In my head I am a dancer, a diver,
an elegant, tall, thin Sally……
and then I giggle a smidging
at the very ‘notioned’ thought……
I laugh at myself as I pirouette
around and about, in and out
of all parts of me……………
Yet then I see this ageing self
in the glass upon the wall ….
a self where the years have
garnerd lines, rolls, width and curves
and I wonder:
“do I truly believe this is really me?
Who is ‘Me’? Where does the ‘I’
in me reside?” and inwardly I
toss my aching shoulders skyward!
All I know is this: my belief doesn’t
KNOW what I know about me……
skinny, vulnerable ‘Little Me’.