when sheep become goldfish (14/Sept/18)

autumn is spilling in, from over the hills and far away to closer and closer each day with limitless bounds grazing the mountains and scavenging summer and gorging on what it leaves behind, all of its flaws and all of its haws, the grating of grates being cleaned and readied, the splitting of logs chopped in the spring to season through summer to feed sacrificial to autumns remorseless embrace… “it’s coming, it’s coming!”, the upland sheep bellow, “have you regrown your fleece?”, as they check each other out to ensure they are ready prepared for what they are built for but still, even a sheep needs wraps itself tight, after all, you’ll not find them huddled in front of a hearth anytime soon… I know what you’re thinking, yet another weather-worn wringing of words about weather, “the weather, the weather, anyone would be forgiven to think you’re obsessed!”, which in all fairness I probably am but you see we are none of us to a man or a woman immune to its vagaries conjured from seemingly nought… some get annoyed, in fact most people do, projecting intent upon it’s every move, they’ll shout and they’ll swear at it, sometimes they’ll smile at it though that is as rare as a unicorn… they’re bothered by how it never stands still, like it has ants in its pants or its feet are on fire, like my patio felt during the heatwave… ah, the heatwave, the heatwave, remember that?… when was that now? so long ago or that’s how it feels as though it was only a dream but it happened, it happened and even then there were those most put-out by its relentless abuse in outstaying its welcome, refusing to rain, and turning a sea of pointlessly-manicured lawns to a marbling of browns to which they equally pointlessly water with sprinklers and hoses ignoring that most of it quietly vanished I evaporation but giving the grass false-hope turning green for a day and then dying a death, as they say… but that was then and this is now and all is maybe forgiven, or possibly not, or at least totally forgotten by those with the memory and attention-span of a goldfish… … … so how did we make it to this, from sheep to goldfish, have to be careful upon what you wish…… autumn is coming, as if you didn’t know, filling the blanks that summer’s left vacant, at least here it is anyway and here is the only here I can be as if I was there I’d be there……… … …

© 2018 robert greig

sprinklings (28/Feb/18)

the day began white and grey and ended blue and green… from cloud to clear, from snow to ice to vellum shades of February blacks…… earlier the lambs were gamboling having been getting born since Christmas into winter knowing only winter perhaps thinking this is how it’ll always be, whatever else, cold, cold, cold… what will they make of long days?… more time to gambol?… before you know it they’ll be going to gambolers anonymous to bleat and baa their way through a compulsion to uncontrollably jump and leap and bounce and bounce and bounce…………….
do not take the shot until you see the whites of their sides… not the sheep, the mountains apologetically and almost embarrassingly showing off their wrinkles through their bleached make-up, all creases, cracks and fissures, icy tears snatching glints of low sun light to feed their temperance… they are fishers of clouds, these peaks, catching them on well-cast summits reeling them into their white-out…..
I’m falling asleep as I’m writing this can barely keep the words on their lines… have you ever nodded off actually during the act of writing?… eyes closing while the hand keeps moving, like a spinning top winding down getting wobblier and wobblier (so good a word I wrote it twice)… no doubt I’ll wake up later and try make sense of my barely-legible-cum-illegible scrawl, scrawl, crawl, crawl, fall, fall into sleep, sleep deep, deep, deep between the lamplight and nolight, tales of  the manifest night, the absence of sight when space conspires with sound, sound to scuttle around, around to be found, found, foundering upon a rocky beach of sleep, sleep, sleep…………………

© 2018 robert greig