This Place Is Not A Place

This place is not a place
When grey clouds engulf the whole of it

It is a world of its own existing
Untroubled by man’s stories

From here the coniferous line across the lake
Is but a slightly darker shade of grey

And all things faintly shine 
Of a grey glistening light

Raindrops softly bend
One leaf ; then another

My hut is a drum on which
The sky shuffles its fingers

The hours have stopped —
All things suspended

I’m no longer sure 
Which one is floating

The boat
The lake

The clouds
The forest

Or myself

Old Fly At My Window

Old fly at my window

Dragging yourself tenaciously

What do you see on the other side?

Thursday Morning, 7:30am

In a quiet creep
The dusty rays emerge
In sharp-cut shapes
Onto the kitchen floor

And with a silent bow
Retreat from this blessed house
And carry on with their play
Of endless hide-and-seek

The Bug

Appearing on my book’s left page
a black-winged bug
whose name still a mystery
resting for a moment
against the soft yellow pages

Its body, except for its head
entirely covered with long black wings
made out of the most sophisticated fabric
and carved by thin black lines
wiggling in perfect alignment

Its legs were as thin as eyelashes
as strong as cherry tree branches
perfectly angled for supporting
the whole of its weight

It stood still for a few seconds
seeking nothing, it seemed
like an old man
sitting on his front porch
his quest long ago forgotten

Then answering life’s mysterious call
it spread its wings and floated away
in the moist afternoon air
leaving me alone with my book

and its image slowly fading
with each second
until I’m left with only a blur

Words

I want to speak

to you

of

silence

but

nothing

comes to mind