swallowing sound (11/April/18)

marbles in the night…… a rumbling, comes out of nowhere, suddenly there when before it wasn’t, my growing awareness gradual beyond its start point and then… when it begins I’ve never been certain seething out of silence as it does… it strains and sustains monotones somewhere not near enough though not far enough away that it can’t be heard, rarely changing pitch or tone or hue, continuous its sine wave leaching through the air with abandon, abandoned by its source… an undifferentiated applause……
… and then it’s gone…
… never hanging for too long but long enough to wonder… to make me wonder… but almost like a star which died millennia ago and whose light remains regardless… gone… returned to… nowhere, and a silence quickly crumples in on itself, retreating to a claustrophobic distance, enough to make my ears pop…… swallowing sound… press the button: reset……imploding assignations, a tryst unrequited, an impermeable impermanence, one fist clenching… … … .. .. .. . .

© 2018 robert greig

eggs for breakfast (6/Feb/18)

it’s ten to ten
is it?
yes…
good-o
think I’ll go to bed then…
at this time?
yes, why not?
a bit early isn’t it?
is it?
I mean, it’s not even 10 o’clock, or “ten of the clock” as they say
do they say that?
I supposed someone must…
ok…… and you’re right it isn’t 10 yet, it’s ten too…
indeed, I stand, or as I’m sat, sit corrected
it just feels like bed time to me, being winter and all, dark, has been for hours and hours, like everything outside has already beaten me too it and is well on the way to slumbertown…
I see, well yes it is dark and has been for hours and hours…
are you going to repeat everything I say now?
… no…
good-o
oh, good one, sneaky, you slipped that on in under the duvet that’s for sure
I have my moments…
so it’s ten to ten and you’re off to bed then… I made a rhyme!
[flicks eyes skywards] I feel like I’m tuning into something, finding the darks wavelength and resting the dial just… there… just there between the static and some far, far away foreign station whose language I have no idea of… I feel it could slip off any moment as analogue dials are prone to doing, design quirks an’ all… I’ve found the frequency and daren’t move it now…
wow, sounding all a bit profound there
thanks?
albeit it a bit over-egged…
over-egged?
a bit yes
you comparing my stream of philosophical consciousness inspiring revelations with something on the breakfast menu?
keep your hair on, oops you don’t have any [mild self-giggle], you don’t even eat eggs for breakfast, what do you care?
I don’t, that’s true, but I might… sometime…
might? when?… when have you ever eaten eggs for breakfast or have even entertained the idea of it in any foreseeable, entertainable future?
admittedly I never have, again, can’t disagree on principle… actually, I tell a lie, I have, once, when I was 13…
well, that hardly counts…. so what did you think?
clearly not a lot as I’ve, as you say, never had them for breakfast since, anyway the point is…
what is the point?
the point is…
yes?
it is….
what?
… that it’s now ten past ten and I’m way past my bedtime…

© 2018 robert greig

a tattle-tale (18/Jan/18)

where are the jackdaws I wonder…

my jackdaws… would they really be spending all night atop the canopies of the tallest sycamore, ash and oak that root and branch the woodland across the road as though it was any other night?… in their rookery… alongside their brothers, and sisters, in wings, the rooks?…

while all the while tonight’s wild, icy, wintry storm raves and craves and drools for attention… everyone’s attention,  and it’s got it… after all, it’s hard to ignore…

if they are they’ll be hanging on for dear claws which, although are contracted when relaxed thus making perching with their closed talons is essentially effortless, in this weather I’m sure they’d be stretching their effortlessness to clinging with beaks clenched… much as I admire them, indeed all of the crow family, I’m glad tonight not to be one… out there, in the dark, at the mercy of the January elements at its most unforgiving January-worse…… the kind of weather not there to make friends nor any compromises as it decidedly uncompromisingly wails away to its hearts content bringing all of its mayhemical choirs to the fore for a crescendo that goes on… and on… and on……

I wonder if they’ll all make it through the night, for some new to the fold their first ever January, no doubt beyond their wildest imaginings… if jackdaws have wild imaginings which I’m sure they have, just look in their blue eyes…… I know they’re tough as old black boots but such stormy gusts punctuated by hail and sleet for good measure may be more than a match for anyone’s mettle but the most hardy… or the most canny who’ve dropped down below the canopy to slightly more sheltered branched retreats…

and here I am far form tree-hugging at no doubt the jackdaws are doing, instead I’m duvet-hugging, coddled in a bevy of pillows… I wonder if they even know I’m here, though I imagine they have enough on the corvid minds with the storm and all… but if they did would they think how  torrid it would be locked up inside that tiny box and with no feathers!… no feathers!… that’s just unnatural and obscene!… I can hear them tattle-taleing right now……
there was an old man who lived in a box
he didn’t wear feathers
‘tis surely his loss.

© 2018 robert greig