What does it mean
that you wander through those hills,
hide between the rocks and burrow under roots?
What does it mean
that you listen to the birds,
head cocked in concentration for their words?
What does it mean
when your eyes turn to the peaks,
houses and humanity left behind your mind?
What does it mean
that spaces stretch to pain,
hubris becomes agony and no one is the same?
I’m stringing together words
connecting us like beads
winding threads
capturing beauty that flashes in the light
I’m stringing us tightly together
knotting now so we can
recreate this moment
when we fear we are unravelling.
Summer bakes us all
we glisten, basted,
glossy, full of scent
on the beach coconut
on the track athletic musk.
The dog lies panting
collapsed in a cool for now spot
We long for air conditioning
and winter ice.
The idea
like a shy child
peeks from around a corner
hoping you will notice it.
If you’re too busy to pay attention
it fades away and you are left
trying to find the picture you can’t
quite bring to mind.
.
.
.
Twice this morning, while busy with something else, an idea fluttered up. Twice I thought, “Oh! That’s good. I must remember that!” and twice it disappeared into the ether. Darn. Darn.
We’re nestled here between the hills
protected from the harsh winds
warm and basking by the lake.
But you are bored,
you’re ready to escape,
to see what lies beyond the valley
and so we wave farewell
knowing after adventure,
home calls the blood.
Moon glow through our window
illuminates you, bestowing silver
ribbons upon your hills and valleys,
inviting me to stroll their glassy paths.
The moon insists on marking you
with her lunar kisses, and I will humour her,
for she is envious I share your pillow,
while she can only hold you from afar.
The bouquet of irises
is dessicated;
brown paper shells devoid of scent,
death displayed in a vase.
The purple blooms,
dripped inky streaks down the walls
and puddles onto the floor.
The stains leave a memory of floral glory
for tomorrow.
I do not know what to do
about your screams.
It seems you plunge
to unplumbable depths
and I do not know
how to swim.
The mists of melancholy
shroud the waters,
coat you in agony,
fog reason, and
I fear I am not lighthouse
enough to guide you home.
It’s crowded
in my head
No room for tunes
or truth festooned
across your bed
It’s crowded.
![DSCN1592[1]](https://shawnbird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/dscn15921-e1431482559656.jpg)
.
Water rushing,
whispering journey,
rippling over rocks
hurrying yearning
for shimmering
ocean.
.
(This water colour painting is half of a pair by Valerie Rogers)
Shawn L. Bird 