aftertaste

© 2018 robert greig   (aftertaste)

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lamentate

© 2018 robert greig (lamentate)

jacklings and stardaws

© 2018 robert greig (jacklings and stardaws)

jetty, confetti and starlings (1/Jan/19)

there once was a jetty made entirely out of confetti that was held together solely by starlings that roosted there every night among the braces and struts and with just the sound of their chattering, their sonorous vibrations and resonant ovations were able to unwittingly convince the confetti to bind together as one, one solid structure intriguingly in the shape of a jetty, that some called a pier but clearly as pier doesn’t rhyme with jetty then jetty it is at least until someone can work out a way of rhyming pier with confetti… each day around dusk the starlings returned, one by one, two by two, tens by tens, hundreds by hundreds, thousands upon thousands after having spent each day making clouds and ghosts in the sky, amusing the tourists and equally chattering crowd, and they never missed a day until now, and not even now and hopefully never forever will they miss the nightly sojourns among their feathered kin among the braces and struts as if they did, and here is the cautionary bit, it would just fall apart, come away at each seam and tumble collapsing in pieces into the sea with confetti like flakings of rust dusting the air as it fell into the swell of the tide that came in and the tide that went out and with it be washed away forever and a day for you see the jetty behaves like a tuning fork and perhaps is indeed such a thing as if you listen close enough you will always be hearing it sing, it’s singing the notes and the melodies, ditties and tunes that the starling themselves sing into the wood and the steel every night and sustain it throughout each day when the starling do take themselves somewhere away until their returning at dusk to renew their vows with each other and with the jetty made out of confetti unwittingly convincing it to keep its shape and its bits in place against weather and seasons and trampling feet it stands complete with few but aware of the truth that lays there of the confetti jetty and the charming of starlings………

© 2018 robert greig

#133: mightbemaybenot (1/Dec/18)

[written on the 30/Nov/18…. posted as I thought you may like to read it…]

1. comes around

another last day comes around
shh, don’t make a sound
not yet
don’t ruin it…

1. the usual it seems

.. I woke up early, little sleep, the usual it seems, it was dark, the usual it seems, it’s autumn, or winter, who can tell, it’s dark, the usual it seems… though matters little though just enough to leave a small niggle in the forefront of my thoughts, the usual it seems… it’s not unusual to not tell twins apart; are they twins?… it’s hard to tell if there’s even two as one bleeds into the other almost seamlessly, or in fact seamlessly… the usual it seems… when all the leaves are gone is that not winter then?… but I see five leaves left on the gingko, and three left on the apple and one remaining on the once-adorned maple, and as for the oak they must be double-figure still though low they still cling on in vein (sic) hope, they’re there still singing autumns praises, flying the flag, so to speak, albeit waning flag… the usual it seems… so is it winter yet or am I simply wishful thinking, or longing for an autumn gone to linger that bit longer?… I think it might be, maybe not, or mightbemaybenot……

• strewn

… driveway strewn with acorns some still on their branches some just free-fell from above, luckily before I got there otherwise my head may come to grief… road strewn with cars   in a typically British orderly way, even here in Wales queuing is the same, confined between the kerbs, the lines and to the left, always on the left, a trait you’ll find on escalators, stairs and even footpaths a tendency to keep to the left leaving anything oncoming for the right… an unwritten truth… woodland path strewn with leaves not unlike a snowfall but instead in all the colours of the rainbow if said rainbow was sepia, making drifts along the edges leaving just enough to walk through, a parting of the waves as Moses-like I stride forth through a flurry here and flurry there tantalised by wind gently stirring  its autumn soup…….

1. still slumber sleeping

… buildings caged in scaffolding as though turned inside out with their viscera on show… a dragon waves and I wave back, it’s flapping slashing through the air sound, a ropes loud objection to being bound so as it is to the flagpole… some street lights don’t seem to know it’s morning while others think it’s still night: it’s the inbetween-time with their eyes about as wide awake as those of the parade of drivers, also in an inbetween, except the one between patience and not… most shops still slumber sleeping in until a no doubt designated hour when they’ll spark into life as though all at once like they were never closed at all; except there’s one or two who break the rules opening earlier, much earlier, to beckon in passing waifs and strays with tantalising rows of headlines bothersome or worrisome or absurdsome alongside bakery delights reminding some they forgot to have breakfast before venturing abroad…

1. where they go

… sky strewn with clouds still unsure which way to go, how to play the day, keeping us guessing, wondering, or at least those of us who bother to look up as those in towns and cities all-too often forget to do anymore bearing an air of seen it all before… nevertheless today they’ll be glad they wore their overcoat to wend their way to where-they-go, in and out like ghosts street to street, they’ll get there in the end these where-they-go’s to where-they-go…..

1. early worm

… the bins are being emptied, their discards discarded again but this time into wheeled twilight warriors who, kind of but not quite that stealthily, groan their way in their own inbetween, between the street and clumsy-parked cars leaving behind them  battlezone of empties at the mercy of the wind, some blue, some green, some black, some brown all become forgotten while some become blown so far from home they wander wind-strewn still-born streets like lost dogs… gardens fizz with bird calls, not song as such not being spring, but of other things in code that’s only known to them… meanwhile a blackbird gets the early worm, and the early worm gets eaten… the moral of this tale?… don’t be an early worm…

• cue the queue

… people?… ah yes, people… they emerge from their cocoons just to climb into another then to sit in slow procession in this still-snaking pageant of traffic, patiently impatient, resigned, surrendered to a daily grind with Friday on their mind… it’s another day in paradise, apparently, as the light gets lighter and mundanity spills in stealing away poetic justice leaving just disembodied words to find their own way like the queue, like the dragon, like the bins, like the early worm, like the ghosts from street to street all strewn and cast like die upon a game on chance and circumstance, pick a card but don’t tell me what it is… never… the less I know the better…..

© 2018 robert greig