Hidden layers of a life
waiting to be sewn,
a grey which skirted
what might have been.
If you’d lifted the hem
you’d have found the truth.
Instead you stayed back
chose not to look.
draped her frame.
She was not there.
A mannequin replied,
lied as required.
The sorry written
in her seams,
if only you’d seen.
The crow sits.
Watching from his high-rise.
Calling through the half-light.
With one brief flap of silent wings,
A flash of indigo black
disappearing into the mist.
Our guide has spoken. We follow.
His silhouette an arrow.
His eager chatter a call to catch up.
He returns to the embrace of trees
There are no words.
That is where sound begins.
Gentle as a sigh.
The quiet of a mountainside.
Secrets whispered on a lovers tongue.
Truths to which we all belong.
The pause before breath.
Eyes which speak.
A heart which softly hums.
I pour the Whisky.
Watch it fill.
My hand gripping the glass.
One small sip,
and I am already lost.
My fingers trace it’s contours,
follow ridges and curves.
I know it will quench my thirst
Once I was midnight
I lived in the empty time.
Held captive by the stars.
I swallowed secrets,
swam silky, satin depths.
Drowned in moonlight.
I drifted towards brightness
away from evening’s delusory dreams.
The redwood listens to the sky.
To the flash of deep blue wings
which pierce the horizon.
The redwood listens as the stream flows.
The salmon have returned to the calm,
their tails shifting in the afternoon shadows.
The redwood listens as the wolves howl.
Their echoes retreat into the depths of trees.
There’s not a sound as the snow falls.
The redwood listens as muffled voices draw near.
There’s a vibration of footsteps
and the unmistakeable clink of metal.
The General stands on the edge of the field.
Taller than it’s comrades. Battle worn.
It has seen the passing of a million stars,
has heard the hope of song.
It knows doubt.
Knows what will bring men to their knees.
It wants to kneel beside them.
To tell them it is listening.
Instead it leans against the wind.
And reminds them to breathe.