#93: silence of the buzzard (13/Nov/18)

it flew from the oak, huge as it was, so much so I wondered how it could fly at all…. but fly it did and easily, smoothly, it was after all a bird, big for one for certain but one nonetheless as on outstretched wings the buzzard abandoned the tree as though it had just then popped into existence having not been before just that second so effective was its camouflage, its plumage blending almost seamlessly at any time of the year but particularly so among the sepias, russets and golds of autumn… it is still autumn, isn’t it?… the flip-flop season, one minute could be winter and the next could be just as easily late summer but no, no it’s most definitely, ‘ish, autumn as leaves even now after so many blustering storms continue to fall from the ever-thinning crowns of the canopies to litter lawns, path and streets, gutters, bus shelters, benches, tops of cars and anyone foolish to stand still long enough, with even the smaller bushes and shrubs now temporarily adorning these hand-me downs, sometimes ill-fitting and sometimes uncannily convincing you’d never know of their former preloved existence.. but that was a whole season ago, a season that left and took the warmth with it leaving the sun barely enthusiastic enough to lift itself off the horizon… for such an enormous wingspan the buzzard left the tree owl-like from where it perched silent, vigilant, patient, almost omniscient with barely a fuss nor even a sound…… if only, if only I had the simplicity of the buzzards life, hard though no doubt it is at times, still, there is envy………

© 2018 robert greig

#64: darker intents (1/Nov/18)

welcome, welcome, the first of November, remember it was once October but now, but now, but now it’s November… remember November, it was long, long ago, maybe twelve months, yes I know, yes I know, it was twelve months twelve months ago that last there was a November but, this one is different, this one is now and not then not jaded not yet anyway… but I suppose give it some time perhaps 30 days or even less maybe just three before it becomes as haggard as the rest, all the other Novembers from distant pasts now lost in the mists not one of them lasted much more than the others grown long in the tooth and over the hill…
descend
descend
descend into winter
sliding down in darkening down
this is November all shiny and new but just like I said won’t be very soon and time as time does will invoke its toll, corrupt its soul, wear it as thin as the thinnest of things that are thinner than anything words can express…
descend
descend
descend into winter
slippery, sliding the slope is for sure for all your sure-footedness will come to nought when there’s nothing to grip and the cold rips flesh from the bones so ready yourself although no one’s ever prepared, it’s the same every year as winter come sooner and quicker than sound or even than light that it east for its breakfast and spits out what’s left to eke out the day in its discards, so…
welcome, welcome, the first of November, did it or you get here first?… or was it a tie both at the same time setting foot into unknown tides… the rise and the set, the hours that let only shreddings of light hold sway until once more that knock at your door as night drags in winters deepest and darkest intents……

© 2018 robert greig

bothersome (16/Sept/18)

never mind being haunted by the past, it’s when the present gets in on the act and comes a-haunting, that’s when you need to worry…
meaningful, meaningful, got to find the meaningful in something, the meaningality… yes, yes, that’s it, the reasoning, the reason for, the reason, the reasonality… get the point, miss the point, get the point, miss the point, it’s the compass game, always pointing north… one way, always the same… except when it isn’t… how do I know when it isn’t, I’m not a bird with a highly-developed magnetic sense of which way to fly… nor can I fly, despite the lies I tell myself, that being, of course I can fly, I just choose not too… choices, choices, choisality, the which way: high road or low road, left right, straight on until morning… but’ it’s already morning, where now?… signs, signs, where are the signs, the sine waves signing off each moment like a checklist…. done that one, done that one, done that one…… sigh… sighs… the sound of a wave… a sigh wave… psi, psi, psi-power, siphoning, psiphoning… is it the same as vacuuming, siphoning the carpet?… siphoning a vacuum?… don’t point your vacuum cleaner at the sky at night or it might suck Space in by accident which, I’m sure, wouldn’t be a good thing…… waves sound like wind, or wind sounds like waves, and yet… they are different, or… two side of the same coin?…
… and what about the future… what if that came a-haunting too, how bothersome it would be……

© 2018 robert greig