Laying in the litter of black bark,
The dark is strewn with our shadows
We carpet the ground beneath the trees
And we cannot see our feet
But even in this layer of geological light
Or non-light, absence of light, everything-but-light cake layer,
There is a small stirring; something is awake,
On the tops of the shapeless shadows,
Suddenly less black, more brown, almost green,
The crickets are singing imperceptibly in some far off place, as high as the soft laughing tree heads, curly tops,
And down here, where we are as low as you can get without digging a hole,
We can smell the promise of dawn coming in an hour or a minute or a day,
Light comes so softly you cannot hear it breathing, till,
Till… and here it is.
I randomly stumbled upon a quote that went something like this; you won’t remember mowing the lawn or going to work, so go climb that mountain! And it got me thinking about the little things in life, so this is sort of my response to that quote, because we can’t always be climbing mountains.
I might remember when I mowed the lawn, pushing the monster through the tangled green, wearing black gumboots and a red face, the giant hum shielding my ears from all other sounds and the daisies cheeky, never cut, for they are too low to the ground.
I might remember when I curled exhausted in the chair and closed my eyes, and the air swirled outside my eyelids, dark green, and red and splashes of yellow around the mahogany furniture. And when I opened my eyes my eyelashes swept up against my curled fingers that were propping up my face.
And I might remember how every time I highlight text electronically, no matter how many colours I used last time; green for common use, yellow for sub-points and blue for quotes, it always stains dark pink when I start again, because that is always the colour I used last, the colour of extremely important points.
Watercolour-blue, paper carded sky, marked on crisp white labels, starry seeds. Black wells of pooling ink,
The waiting crocodiles yawn, illuminated in cool moonlight. Silk strands curling off corn heads writher till white herons set off
Across the coarse brown sand.