This moment-in-time
(lemon yellow sunlight)
pauses, stands back
from its creations, ripening
into fruits and berries, orange and red
this moment may not have a name
but it sees the puffs of down
floating from the rosebay willowherb
and smoke signals drift
from the horizon
from the airfield, a plane arcs
speared by sunlight
seagulls glide across the water
and the moment slides so slowly
you feel it hesitate – and almost halt
it strikes you just below the sternum
where the body holds a map of time and landscape,
flicks open a page –
one memory overlays another
another fold of fabric (mountain, stone)
pressing into pine and willow trees –
the rocks at shoreline and the sea,
willowherb down sticks on the damp paint
of the canvas
as you draw a sharp line of horizon
try to scrub the estuary from memory
before the floating down turns time
into nostalgia and a failure
of the flower-seed to sink
into new ground
with a sigh (you can almost hear it)
time becomes again – something you move into
and leave behind, like walking
through a garden gate, hearing it close.
In front of you, the red rock cliff
and an old jetty, remnants of weathered wood,
a sketch that time’s undone.
Now it’s train schedules,
a railway bridge across the estuary –
you could blink and it would not be there.
Comments
Rxx
And, Forest dream weaver, you are an inspiration, and uplifting, always xx