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dust ladders.

touch deep time. this desert night
is silver-tinged, and silent.
you climb dust ladders into the light
and i am early morning freeway speeding,
west through the mojave.
just a beaming string of refulgent headlights
piercing two inky infinities.
we are all suspended somewhere in-between.

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little things

non-exhaustive, list of lovely little things to be grateful for

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golden raspberries
farmers markets
sweet peas
churchbells
harebells
earl grey
forget me nots
wisteria trellises
palo santo
the smell of jasmine
peppermint tea
tulsi
finger sandwiches
abalone shells
pistachio ice cream
fairy lights
singing bowls
wildflowers
moroccan lanterns
cherry blossoms
cups and saucers
porridge with butter and brown sugar
lilac
turtleneck jumpers
jam on toast
christmas stockings
maltese dogs
tealights
sourdough bread
steaming bowls of soup
chai tea
well worn persian carpets
pyjamas just pulled from a tumbledryer
peter pan collars
curly hair
the silence after snowfall
labradoodles!
adonis blue butterflies
stained glass
sparkling wine
chestnuts
kaleidoscopes
opals
ugly squash!
hanging crystals
rose gold evening glow
coconut dahl
japanese sugar maples in autumn
dark chocolate
sparklers
the northern lights
dew drops
purring cats/a litter of kittens
french pastries
berets
wild strawberries
magnolia trees
afternoon tea
teapots
grandfather clocks
ginger cordial
watercolours
heirloom tomatoes
snowdrops
silk shirts
fireflies
and music boxes

home is a harbour.

home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water. home is a whistling kettle bubbling, boiling, hissing, home is the kitchen windows steaming.

home is a collection of miscellaneous, dishwasher chipped mugs, set haphazardly in crammed cupboards, home is ‘a spoon of sugar for me’, and gifted whittards’ tins, a whole world of tea.

home is crimson painted walls, and flaking woodchip, home is barefooted tiptoeing terracotta tiles, and fraying persian carpet.

home is the ticking away of a grandfather clock, each hour it will chime, home is the peachy evening gentle glow of fading daylight, dappled through single pane glass, a window from which you will watch the seasons pass.

home is hanging crystal prisms catching the sun, casting patterns on the bedroom wall. home is a cluttered desk covered in photographs, potions, powders, notebooks, you’ve neglected some or all.

home is cast iron pots and brass pans, the scents of garlic, rosemary, wafting up the stairs. home is wholesome, healing food, soups, stews, broths, and rising loaves of bread.

home is wrapping yourself tight in a chintz floral blanket, on a pale and frozen winters afternoon, home is tealights, lanterns, church candles, lighting up the room.

home is rain for days, skies looming grey, the sound of church bells descending in the distance.

home is silk shirts, and collapsing metal clothes racks, delicate china, teacups and saucers.

home is peppermint tea, ginger and honey, bowls of oats topped with butter, jam, syrup, strawberries.

home is crescent moon eyelids closing, home is collected wildflowers, each pressed between the pages of some ancient, and inherited book. home is growing.

home is vegetables growing in the back garden, home is a cat purring, a fox creeping across the silvery, moonlit midnight grass, an owl hooting.

home is a next-door neighbours wind chime twinkling gently in the breeze.

home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water.

dragon’s mouth, fairy creek

dragon’s mouth, fairy creek,
sulphur and mid-summer heat.

my fingers are sticky with wild blackberry honey,
watch as bison roam
under the shadow of thunderstorms.
through bluebell
and beargrass meadows.
skirting the crumbling edges of bonewhite angel terraces.
vapour clouds rise from the thin crust earth.

a gathering force.

a suitcase, filled with earl grey,
raspberry rose farmers market dark chocolate,
ginger cordial, a recommendation of my fathers,
cretan cookbooks, and a hand carved wooden cat.
i pack overpriced magic creams, potions, powders, glitter
and make a little room for hope, too
gathered like fine dust
to fill the spaces between things.

take a deep breath,
slow exhale,
and fly west.

my plane takes an unusual route,
across the atlantic
pushed a little further north by the gathering force of another hurricane.
i wear an embroidered silk shirt
and though swamped in my favourite cardigan
i still shiver.

cup of gold

i am
a million cups of gold
heart of bold
fill me up with morning sun,
brilliant.
though the west wind might move furiously
i won’t be,
uprooted.
i’ll dig my watercolour fingers deeper
into the copper clay earth.
below me
antelope valley,
in endless shades of gleam & green
is blooming.

apparitional

The devotional words that were placed in my mouth,
that once felt like home, or like grace,
turn to smoke and spark, how they shift on my tongue,
apparitional thoughts, abstract shapes.

The world
is a spinning pearl
suspended in endless, iridescent space.

Winter solstice,
dull smudge of moon,
has me brought to my knees again.

the veil

before you go
spell your thoughts out in tea lights,
each to be placed in moroccan lanterns set on the sill of the single pane window,
the one that lets out all the heat, with it’s warped glass and flaking white paint
on the third floor of your father’s house.
pour yourself a cup of the vanilla tea you brought back from the west coast,
use a teapot and turn it into something like a ritual,
hang glass crystals from high ceilings and cast spectrums on white walls,
stay up all night, disappear into travel documentaries, the ones about high mountain plains, the northern lights, mysterious kingdoms, shamans, temples, incense.

before i go
i need you to know that this was never about me surrendering
it was more like setting off on a wintry walk, taken at the edge of some opalescent, foggy dawn,
on a frosty december morning.
or, if you’d rather, something like a quiet, long considered, and final understanding.
the traveler in me, wrapped in wool coats, scarves and gloves, embarking on the greatest journey
any of us will know. you know,
i’ve been stood at this precipice for years
peaking through that soft, glittering veil
my arms outstretched, girl at the brink of two worlds
daring herself to take her next step.

november 2016

nice things:

church bells, wind chimes, stained glass, kaleidoscopes. windows wide open on a breezy night. moonlight, mother of pearl, music boxes. the word ‘incandescent’. peppermint tea, pastel blue, palo santo, postcards. dried flowers. lavender. dusty sunsets. the ocean. frosty mornings. night driving. very dark chocolate.

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