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lacecap

A circlet, or a crown, above a cloak of lacecap cloud. Ice crystals spun, into a halo for the sun. Starflower. Summer storm. Lavender, Aster, wave and form. Which complexity comes closest to the truth? Rain-drench. Church bells. This central cluster proof of mine sets down its golden stilts. Each blade of wheat, fate’s ribbons spilt splits, interweaves, now radiates. Scattering petals, illuminates these deep pink globes, time’s ivy-twine. Each thistle, spindle, spear and spine.

pieridae

a couple of cabbage white butterflies rise in spirals around one another, and about the blackberry thickets, which are blossoming, sprawling. the july sky is darkening, it’s promising eventual thunder, the summer sounds of slant strings snapping. but, for now, and before and under all of that, the cat’s speckled eyes are glinting, like hot sunlight, and there are shivering torch-tip petals. the wheat fields are turning a papery yellow.

Κλεεια

the swift-winged summer is stealing the last of the wisteria for itself. with cleia’s consent, the rain, replaced by a rising heat, relents, and the sunlight, now, is as bright as my neighbour’s staccato and soaring laughter. in the garden, the cosmos is collecting dew drops, each flower crafting for itself a cluster-crown of constellatory crystal. the iris pseudacorus are blazing apotropaic blades, the fritillary petals tessellate.

honeysuckle, smoke

the city in june smells of honeysuckle and smoke. i wander along bloomfield road, huddled under an umbrella, and sidestep the first of two shattered mirrors. i hop over a series of (increasing in size) muddy, murky puddles. there are blue stars, and spiral buds, petals in patterns, and i’m almost certain now that flowers have learnt a language larger than any of ours. rows of cars are stuck in traffic, and their passengers are losing patience, you can see it written on some of their faces. there are clouds of rising vapour, poppy petals tearing like tissue paper, and a blackbird sits atop a pile of red bricks. it watches everything, for a little time, all of us together, quickly tilts its head, as if sharply considering something, and then sets off, in quivering flight. a rare light, this afternoon, and it’s ever so beautiful.

diary 24.06.19

a sweeping wind, and the shuddering grass. watch glossy-bodied beetles scuttle between buttercups, they’re darting from dark to dark, gifting glimpses of golden shell. balance forget-me-nots on fingertips, your favourites are the flowers coloured a slight rosy lilac, like a midsummer sky at twilight. the field in which you sit is surrounded by a tangle of stinging nettles, and sticky star cleavers, too, tall trees with speckled trunks.

quodlibet

june afternoon, auricupride, copper and gold combined, a pouring light that crystallises everything it settles on, petal and penumbra. the seconds are stretching, the summer is singing, and i’ll go walking and gather its grace notes. a silver willow dips its emerald arms, pendalogues, sends patterns rippling in still water. the lily of the valley adorns itself now in lustrous pale green armour. the campanula bells are each their own ancient mirror. june’s a crescendoing chorus of colour. quodlibet.

a storm of ships

a mermaid’s tears, from glass and sand. a harp pulled from a siren’s hand. the wind’s echoing thrills, as if mystic sighs raised from the depths of a sailor’s eyes, from a place beyond the touch of death, above the rise and fall of breath. and it’s boundless deep. it’s a circling wave. it’s the pattern and plunge of the rhythm that gave me my floating song, to hold close to my lips. a seaward dream, and a storm of ships.

πέλαγος

diary: 06.13.19 the day’s first rays are bronze-tipped arrows breaking the shallow strip of narrow night that’s left. and the sea is a riddle and the tides are all rhyming. the ocean’s a mirror reflecting in me a prolonged space, a watery song of some fathomless place.  

dusk sparks the stars

a robin to lead through the watermeadows. digitalis obscura, hiding in shadows. damselflies darting, raindrops catching on leaves. streams that lead to the sea. padina pavonica. peacocks tail. these june days soar and then settle pale. seagulls squalling, sirens calling the waves come crashing, crescent, curling tides composing, boats returning home, the sun then flickers, flaring so the spindle turns, now with perfect measure it splits, and sinks into serrated water and dusk sparks the stars.