Monday, 2 January 2012

Two Beats Short of a Poem

To be read in the nasal twang of an EL Wisty

The flowers spoke in multi-coloured sighs,
like painting rainbows on the breeze with parrots’
feathers. The lake observed the sky the whole
day long; the sky returned the compliment
by splashing colours on the surface of
the lake: some blue for when the lake was sad;
some red for anger; pink for passion; orange
… for no good reason. Stars at night pierced holes
along the surface of the lake, each one
a journey’s end. The soil complained about
the endless cold and damp; and who could blame it?
The hills and valleys danced so slowly that
each movement took ten generations. Silence
between the birdsong was the landscape holding
her breath whilst playing hide-and-seek with time.

And you and I, we watched this for an age,
and wondered why we were alone…

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