#93: silence of the buzzard (13/Nov/18)

it flew from the oak, huge as it was, so much so I wondered how it could fly at all…. but fly it did and easily, smoothly, it was after all a bird, big for one for certain but one nonetheless as on outstretched wings the buzzard abandoned the tree as though it had just then popped into existence having not been before just that second so effective was its camouflage, its plumage blending almost seamlessly at any time of the year but particularly so among the sepias, russets and golds of autumn… it is still autumn, isn’t it?… the flip-flop season, one minute could be winter and the next could be just as easily late summer but no, no it’s most definitely, ‘ish, autumn as leaves even now after so many blustering storms continue to fall from the ever-thinning crowns of the canopies to litter lawns, path and streets, gutters, bus shelters, benches, tops of cars and anyone foolish to stand still long enough, with even the smaller bushes and shrubs now temporarily adorning these hand-me downs, sometimes ill-fitting and sometimes uncannily convincing you’d never know of their former preloved existence.. but that was a whole season ago, a season that left and took the warmth with it leaving the sun barely enthusiastic enough to lift itself off the horizon… for such an enormous wingspan the buzzard left the tree owl-like from where it perched silent, vigilant, patient, almost omniscient with barely a fuss nor even a sound…… if only, if only I had the simplicity of the buzzards life, hard though no doubt it is at times, still, there is envy………

© 2018 robert greig

bothersome (16/Sept/18)

never mind being haunted by the past, it’s when the present gets in on the act and comes a-haunting, that’s when you need to worry…
meaningful, meaningful, got to find the meaningful in something, the meaningality… yes, yes, that’s it, the reasoning, the reason for, the reason, the reasonality… get the point, miss the point, get the point, miss the point, it’s the compass game, always pointing north… one way, always the same… except when it isn’t… how do I know when it isn’t, I’m not a bird with a highly-developed magnetic sense of which way to fly… nor can I fly, despite the lies I tell myself, that being, of course I can fly, I just choose not too… choices, choices, choisality, the which way: high road or low road, left right, straight on until morning… but’ it’s already morning, where now?… signs, signs, where are the signs, the sine waves signing off each moment like a checklist…. done that one, done that one, done that one…… sigh… sighs… the sound of a wave… a sigh wave… psi, psi, psi-power, siphoning, psiphoning… is it the same as vacuuming, siphoning the carpet?… siphoning a vacuum?… don’t point your vacuum cleaner at the sky at night or it might suck Space in by accident which, I’m sure, wouldn’t be a good thing…… waves sound like wind, or wind sounds like waves, and yet… they are different, or… two side of the same coin?…
… and what about the future… what if that came a-haunting too, how bothersome it would be……

© 2018 robert greig

when sheep become goldfish (14/Sept/18)

autumn is spilling in, from over the hills and far away to closer and closer each day with limitless bounds grazing the mountains and scavenging summer and gorging on what it leaves behind, all of its flaws and all of its haws, the grating of grates being cleaned and readied, the splitting of logs chopped in the spring to season through summer to feed sacrificial to autumns remorseless embrace… “it’s coming, it’s coming!”, the upland sheep bellow, “have you regrown your fleece?”, as they check each other out to ensure they are ready prepared for what they are built for but still, even a sheep needs wraps itself tight, after all, you’ll not find them huddled in front of a hearth anytime soon… I know what you’re thinking, yet another weather-worn wringing of words about weather, “the weather, the weather, anyone would be forgiven to think you’re obsessed!”, which in all fairness I probably am but you see we are none of us to a man or a woman immune to its vagaries conjured from seemingly nought… some get annoyed, in fact most people do, projecting intent upon it’s every move, they’ll shout and they’ll swear at it, sometimes they’ll smile at it though that is as rare as a unicorn… they’re bothered by how it never stands still, like it has ants in its pants or its feet are on fire, like my patio felt during the heatwave… ah, the heatwave, the heatwave, remember that?… when was that now? so long ago or that’s how it feels as though it was only a dream but it happened, it happened and even then there were those most put-out by its relentless abuse in outstaying its welcome, refusing to rain, and turning a sea of pointlessly-manicured lawns to a marbling of browns to which they equally pointlessly water with sprinklers and hoses ignoring that most of it quietly vanished I evaporation but giving the grass false-hope turning green for a day and then dying a death, as they say… but that was then and this is now and all is maybe forgiven, or possibly not, or at least totally forgotten by those with the memory and attention-span of a goldfish… … … so how did we make it to this, from sheep to goldfish, have to be careful upon what you wish…… autumn is coming, as if you didn’t know, filling the blanks that summer’s left vacant, at least here it is anyway and here is the only here I can be as if I was there I’d be there……… … …

© 2018 robert greig