Wednesday, January 7, 2015

I Sit on my Back Deck

I sit on my back deck
Clouds lour and glower gray and grey
the soft air is still
Its touch reminds me of the flavour of boiled water

A breath of coolth
My head hair lies unmoved, so sheer an air lifts
the fine furze along my arms. 
An airy freshness remains

The bare earth in the bush house smells
of fungi furiously drinking
molecules of moisture that hardly reach that far. 
An earthy mouldy fungal frenzy
Should I mist them?

I stay...

The breeze returns strong enough that mid-height
leaves and branches move.
A coolness spreads through the yard.
Twenty thirty feet up, palm fronds frill and fritter. Eucalyptus branches sweep and surge.

The stillness again …

I forget to breathe …

The moment passes as someone at the tyre shop
two yards over, beats on a recalcitrant tyre, and my neighbour on the left shouts for his dogs to get from under his feet.
A car passes out front.

Then ...
a rain drop on my face ...

Then two, five, a splatter 
all over the page. 


We all have these moments when we sit around, waiting for the washing machine to be ready, for instance, when we can go into observation mode.
Record whatever presents itself.
Sometimes it turns into poetry, sometimes it’ll stay prose.

Always useful. One day.

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