sliver (17/August/18)

for a brief moment an autumn sky brokered the morning, blink and you might miss it… I didn’t blink, I didn’t miss it… and then all too soon it was gone consumed in a flat summer grey, the kind of grey only summer invites to the party, the kind that doesn’t know what to do with itself so just hangs around side-kicking invisible dust, hands in pockets, hood up, blank stare, forgetting to remember… something it forgot to remember… bleeding a lack of imagination… a single swallow sieved the sky for morning vagrants… the early bird gets the… moths in their case, daddy long-legs, tiny spider who spun a single strand of silk to take them up into the jet stream but first have to run the gamut of the swallows whiskers and keen turn of speed… last evening there were dozens making the most of the usual time of day feast flitting through clouds of unwary insects… I wonder if they consider being eaten, that they might be next… regardless it’s too late when they are become bird food, largely at the mouths of swallowing swallows gulping and swooping preparing for the journey which for some will be their first and will do without a second thought the thousands of miles migration they’ve never done or seen before but will do it anyway without question… autumn’s here but keeping a low profile… for now… only giving itself away at times it thinks no one is looking or paying attention as people generally don’t, being far too busy with their own tiny worlds to bother with the much bigger one they perch upon increasingly precariously-so…… I think it wants us to know it’s there though, waiting and sometimes not waiting, patient but cutting a sliver from the hem… it sees the threadbare, the ragged robins, the early fruits ripened far too soon, lost leaves, dead-heads, it notices every nuance with the discernment of an horologist for whom the balance is to the watch what the pendulum is to the clock……

© 2018 robert greig

oldest youngest (13/August/18)

“I remember once upon a time I was the youngest”, she remembered, “now I’m the oldest, everyone I’ve known has died, serves me right I suppose for not”…… I thought it was raining, I looked, it wasn’t… I heard it again, turned, looked, there it was, still not raining… then without hearing it or thinking it I turned, looked, it was raining……

 

© 2018 robert greig

[m]is[t] / dead man’s dance (11/August/18)

from out of mists bats are born frittering passages of air like there’s no dawn, magpies listen, look, plot, waiting it out, ants have buried their day deep underground while dead men dance… step by step they step too and step fro defiant of any crimes and following conundrum rhymes, receding lines all ill-defined, they dance and dance in conjuring the vanishing on gauzy feet a-whispering in sweetly swirls of listless elegies and dance their dead men’s feet… a skin unfurled intangible as sound endures the cadence of abstraction, distraction, bathed within a muted incorporeal, longing tears of gossamer… it’s heartbreak at its most profound and most revered and surely feared while dead men shine their shoes preparing to gavotte and reel, revel in the czardas, a polonaise, galliard and jig handed down and crossed with silver crossed with gold, a stable instability is halting time timely in its tracks while dead man dance their feet and legs and carefree arms turning left and turning right flooding into every crack and fissure threatening their mystery to siphon shape and colour out of every moving thing and everything that doesn’t while bats are born and dead men dance and only fools would risk a final chance……

© 2018 robert greig