at starcross station, sometimes hidden rivers looking like silver ribbons surrender themselves to the ocean. it’s an ancient conversation, saltwater, and stone. there’s a sonorous space in me. in fact, it spills over everything, and i’d like to seperate it. write songs for the sea! strange, back and forth melodies. haunting, or holy? i think the waves might be decorated time. we are surrounded by stillness. deep breath, then, dive. there’s dust dancing in the sunlight, that’s pouring through the window.
dusk drops sun fades evening shadows elongate and marbled skies are parted by a pouring dreamlike light i lace together day and night i lace together day and night
i watched the whole world bloom into colour, one season into another looming lavender skies promised me thunder springtime on the edge of the mountain. then the days, growing softer and slower, one season into another humid evenings and wildflower honey, like sticky-sweet accents, all foreign to me. the last golden sigh of summer, one season into another a slow exhaling september the last of the sunflowers bow their heads. we pierce the darkest days of winter, one season into another holly, mistletoe, frost in the garden then stained glass, then snowdrops, then soon enough spring.
faith celestial braid. november’s grace. palest sky all glass and lace. the enshrined tide (starlight) of an orbicular ocean which will rush, rise, and subside in perpetual devotion. a silver sylvan siren’s whispered superstition offering divine direction, a path to dew drops and cyclamen, my lost pool of Siloam.
i cross the coast, and then below, winding country roads, rising chimney smoke. little looking glass lakes reflect our plane, i’m only just awake.
it was a grey and ghostly, october morning we were caught between the point where sea and just-light sky meet.