burrs (14/August/18)

the wind clung on as long as it could but eventually surrendered to drizzle leaving just sweepings barely brushing the leaves as finings of air were dampened and deadened and dragged rebellious to the ground… it hoped to do more, see another day but instead was given only a taste just enough to extort a regret as rain determined and decided its fate… it had fair warning but when does the wind ever listen to any other than itself, too busy gyrating, berating umbrellas, bullying branches, bartering breezes for the calm before that already calmly walked away when it could unseen and unheard… but in the end its enthusiasm got the better of it and frayed becoming threadbare, a scrabbling, babbling, shambling vagrant with nothing to share but a pocketful of burrs…

© 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