Electric Orange

Trent Bridge Test

Ashes day two

Australia stumble in trouble –

A bottle tossed into an ocean.

Electric orange

The thorax of the fly

Resting on a stick –

The sunny-side of the garden.

Taking the old road, the one which winter storms had gradually eaten into; hence on a hot summer's day you threw up a plume of dust as you went down it. Past the the last gasp dying grip of the town, a torpid brownfield site, where nothing seems to move, the industry of not much. There was a gate but someone had forgotten to close it a long time ago, and now the gate itself was slipping into a collective amnesia with its tendril cloak of inquisitive bindweed testing the air. Several bends later the body of water appears on your right, with its skin of finely wind chopped cloud reflecting thousands of gunmetal greys and silvers. This is the territory of a moorhen skittering with her chicks.

My world is orderly in its striving and chaos, improvisation and the hope, I watch and listen with two eyes and ears, here in this place things are aware of my presence with compound eyes that are bright orange or brilliant emerald green, lest they appear to be. Things live under the water, and view the air with the eyes of death, even the wind has been conquered by things that can glide. Things that move through the ground at my feet that I can not even begin to imagine. Things pass through me even as I try and move. My world, the one I claim ownership of, is just another temporary perception, one living nested with in all these others, the fleeting, the momentary, and the transient. Here at the edge where we intersect, nothing stays still for long. 

Meaning is not provided

Some things you have to find for yourself -

as patterns become our stories.

Wind tears at the window
Butterflies in shadows dwell,
Rain cuts the empty road

Moonlight and all has been said.

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