the gravy plane (25/May/18)

caught between the planes and the graves… jets screaming overhead, graves dreaming underfoot… here we go again, another day of war and death, cause and effect… consequences… some days are so busy there’s a roaring aerial bombardment of sound every 15, 10, five minutes, other days are as quiet as… a grave… we all know we all die, one day, inevitably, in the end, we know this in our heads but yet not one of us thinks it will happen to us… the world can’t really exist without us as what we perceive is the world so if we weren’t here then there’s nothing to perceive… of course we are all perceivers, great perceivers, some more perceivery than others and ever so many perceivereft, bereft of anything close to being perceptive and wade through their days in a meaningless haze… of course we know we aren’t immortal but still, it won’t happen to us, for me not me, for you not you, but for me you will and for you I will and regardless of this we both collude in  a grand illusion not saying a word to anyone lest we break the spell and vanish in a puff of sophistry…. this may all sound specious but that’s delusion for you and contradiction, every day is littered with them, one hand contradicting the other refusing to believe a word, or a finger, that is says, or pokes…… planes and graves, some days dominated equally by both although the graves are always there, next door, being graves, not expecting anything… one thing they do lack, luckily, are onlookers, people taking photographs, unlike the planes where people line the airfields boundaries, enthusiasts (or spies, who knows) watching planes take-off, then land, take-off, then land, over and over… unless there’s a burial there’s none of that activity in the graveyard, none of your bury, exhume, bury, exhume… one, it would be macabre, and two you would need a team of overtakers to undo what undertakers do… there be dragons in both situations, snakes actually, grass snakes in the graveyard, not crawling with them although snakes do crawl, or actually slither (which incidentally is one of my favourite words) and by the airfield because it’s built on sand dunes as was, adders…… as such should a plane-spotter be really unlucky they could wind up in the graveyard sooner than they’d wanted…… but will the world end if they do die?… of course not, because I’m still here and even though I know in my head I’ll die one day (I’m sitting at a wooden table writing this incidentally with bare skin in constant touch with the wood) in my grand illusion tell me quite categorically it won’t happen to me.

© 2018 robert greig

leg-room (20/May/18)

every night an army of minute armoured armadillos, fourteen legs a-piece, sneak out and venture forth from underneath the skirting and into the what are wide open spaces of the bathroom, so featureless the vinyl floor do they even see the pattern, of they do then do they really think it’s would when it isn’t though it lets one think it is through the cunning of design but what do woodlice care for such things as design or chic or even kitsch, imagining they’re not so much the followers of fashion… but on braving such a brave new world it seems that soon before the night is done before the morning piques its cue they desiccate, semi-curl and die becoming husks having sloughed their final slough before they ever found themselves wandering the arid landscape having maybe took a wrong turn… or maybe not…… what are they thinking?… to leave the safety of the dark and damp, their havens in the cavities and hollows where they lightly feed on any old decay but here they are seeking what?…. and did they find it…… did they leave just as cats leave when they know it’s come their time and choose to find a quiet place to leave their breath behind?… even though there are more than one but I don’t think woodlice see that far and an inch can be quite a hike for such tiny, albeit, seven pairs of legs…… every morning here and there like an incidental graveyard, lifeless tiny bodies left for me to take them to their final resting place… the compost…

© 2018 robert greig

fanfare for the common (1/May/18)

the month closed with little fanfare, none really, although spring was getting up a head of steam now with “seasonal average” and “seasonal norms” peppering weather forecasters banter as it’s determined to shake off the flakes of winter entrails however untidily it was becoming in the process…… the gardens were coming to life, greening, budding, leafing, no more birds than usual, usual being lots, but the composition has subtly altered in subtly altering ways… house martins were back (and I don’t mean the pop band), always before the swallows and getting a head-start on nesting, swooping, munching insects on the hoof, or in fact the air, and chittering as martins do in a chitterly fashion (and I don’t mean like the band)…… the mountains are masquerading as January ut it was clearly knock, knock, knockin’ on Mays door despite a defiant earlye in the mornin’ chill that’s insists in persisting… beware of drunken sailors…… another extraordinary high tide, full moon after all, goes with the territory so perhaps not so extra from the ordinary after all… equally remarkable neaps also at the lunar whims bare acres, or hectares if that’s your thing, of mud, seemingly lifeless brown goo pockmarked with an occasional wrecked remains of a boat long past it float-by date… but there be life and plenty of it, as the shelducks in their muddy element with testify as they hover their bills through the briny gunk… who’d be a shelduck having to eat that for breakfast?… well, a shelduck I suppose…… politics is continuing to go merrily to hell in a hand-cart while the streets bleed poverty from every pore and shop door… international relations are at an all-time low, or might just as well be, though there are odd but decidedly wary glimmers that may or may not turn out to be merely fool’s gold…… it’s lighter in the mornings and lighter in the evenings and yet… and yet everything feels heavier… it’s hard to keep up, so much to find amusing, in an unamusing and desperate way, you couldn’t make this stuff up, who’d have thought in 1999 the new so-called millennium would be this alarmingly absurd………… yet another blood test, and apparently I do have some after all, apart from the trickle they took from me, hope they left me enough… I did wonder…… the month of May, could be a political memoir, subtitled, one disaster after another…… cusps, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, they are always strange moments, worry not though it’ll be tomorrow soon……… …

© 2018 robert greig