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
Beneath the veneer, the sparkling wit and quaffed hair lay the remnants of a soul in despair; it was his eyes that gave him away. They were lost. He would always be lost.
I pitied him then, turned away with the broadest back. And though he spat venom, riled and roared, it missed on all accounts. So weak!
I left him to his collected friends and so-called compatriots like grapes on the vine missed in the picking. Worthless, a vintage fit only for insects, he’d rot into the soil without ever knowing what it was to taste champagne.
Folded. Yes, folded. They bend and score and twist and press, but I will not be made as they. Not for a day. No, not a day.
Opened. Yes, opened. All flowers must bloom, petals unfurling to take in the sun. The butterflies will come. Yes, they will come.
Beautiful. Yes, beautiful. This world of colour and texture and light and sound. It’s magical when you look. Folded? No, not I.
The fog makes a shroud
Twilight brought early this day
As I close my eyes
If ever Was was
Was was never not
Unless she really was
And I was not?
If Was ever is
And is ever Was
Then she was Was
Still, I was not
One day Was will
She’ll say Was was
And Was will leave
Was and I, was