Terra Khaya

This is my ode to you
old one of the forest,
both man and mountain
and all the space between:
set free by the imperfections
we have been given to play with.

Those three peaks still clear
through the veil, dancing in a blanket
that smells of thunder and rhythm
and the red-flashed rhymes of starlings,
as if all the memory of the world
were in a single raindrop
running through your thatch roof,
water itself just a resonating chamber
we made, hoping to remember
what it was to lie on a couch
beneath a giant dreamcatcher
and bridge our beating hearts,
to hear again the first music
this flowing memory holds
and serve it with love -
like our long sleep suggested -
as every human soul crossed
onto a starship and swung
to the rising sound,
before breaking free into emptiness;
one spark come at last
to bring the light.

One small dot in the dark fish’s eye,
not meant to dazzle,
but rather to remind you
of what was said in True Voice
and the full joy of watching
the dead dance in that ancient hall,
a pack of dogs their only witness,
while we went outside time
and watched it trail behind us,
just a ship’s wake on a moonlit night
and the gently heaving memory
of what we really are,
as the clouds cross again
an empty painting come alive
and a rainbow ripples upward,
destined for nothing
but to point
at the never-ending ocean.

Traces

It’s all non-fiction

Inside

Made with lost words