he was a man who lived on stories
found them daily on the path
like tiny nuggets
that shone under his light
after summer
the awning was raised
to accommodate the sun
lying each day a little lower
in the west
a magpie grasped for balance
on the wire
outside the bedroom window
small flaps of his wings
to find balance
against the sway of landing
raised up his head
pointed to the sky
sang
glory glory
again
glory glory glo-or
such easy praise
joy so nonchalant
balance in the trill
that was his song
he plucked a word
into his hand from empty air
held it open palm
to see where it might go
puffed lightly
let it drift away
satisfied that he understood
after six days
the clove was smooth and moist
full with promise still
but with no sign of a stalk
no green
and what of that
let six turn into twelve
let time be arbiter
let the clove
find the heart it needed
to grow
what is time
if not that space
he walks
anticipation in each stride
towards a thing
that must be seen
that must be drunk
and tasted
he walks
on the outskirts of dreams
sometimes
a step inside them
in the mirror are eyes
that watch
as keenly as the watcher
a familiar stranger
dressed in deep etched lines
in sags
and grey
yet
the face that holds the eyes
is alive
amused perhaps
ready to look upon
another stage that is a journey
complete within itself
oh
happy tale
he stoops to the daisy
everlasting
colours gone
calls to mind purple
and gold
contemplates the ending of a thing
contemplates
the start
~