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