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
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

 

~

Comments3

  • orchidee

    Good write Frank.

  • Tony36

    Great write

  • Frank Prem



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