The Birds and the Bees
The leaves hung like hummingbirds hovering for food. In swarms of suspended metals, autumn’s glinting deposits waited to settle on the scorched ground.
Next came the wind. Warmer than a lover’s kiss, colder than a refusal, it took me in its swirling embrace unsure whether to throttle or enfold. Me and that last of all trees in that last of all places.
Those leaves that remained whipped about like bees stinging at my skin, my throat, my everything. In beauty, I died.
We all did.
“Watching the lonely grow lonelier, I grow lonely too.”
The Ghost Writer
Such candid emotions
They bite at your skin
Nipping and teasing out the truth
So close to true pain
That know the answers before they are given
Shaking out falsities
Like a dog with a bone
Whose teeth will never blunt
And eyes never tire
But the last laugh is yours
As the agony of withdrawal builds
For the simple reality is this
They could’ve just asked
Pastels in the sky
A new day born of pinched cheeks
Homeless children playing football with cans.”
It was an idea, a fanciful dream. I packed nothing and left everything.
The plantations were green, not brown. A prevailing wind filtered out the sounds of humanity’s pickers but the life I had wished for never existed.
I returned home deflated. My mum smiled and offered me a coffee.
Author’s note: It’s amazing what you can find hiding amongst the sheep and guinea fowl on a cold English day.
This Andean visitor
Thinks he is a sheep