Frank Prem

on stories

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


glory glory




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
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


the face that holds the eyes
is alive
amused perhaps
ready to look upon
another stage that is a journey
complete within itself


happy tale


he stoops to the daisy
colours gone


calls to mind purple
and gold
contemplates the ending of a thing


the start