It was our houses that were the aliens we became the invasions and I am no less guilty needing these things as much as any man if not more lest the cold get to my troubled heart the birds sing of things we couldn’t we’re animals lost in communication in which we still have no translation
In the woods grounded in rugged boots stripped from our alienation we stand in communion with the others their tails waving and teeth chattering and beaks opening trailing out winters breath Bills drilling, tongues rolling snapping up a woodpeckers delight nothing is quite the same once you realise even dead trees are teeming with life
My breath trailed out before me as light as a feather and a breeze blew through the enchanted forest and spread the richness of autumns gold like a clue enlightening desire paths scented with that nutty earth aroma of a seasons transition in which storms are brewed just a stone’s throw away from empty streets and bounties becoming few A teacup awaiting winters brew
I don’t need an umbrella walking through this pseudo forest as the leaves lose their leathery coating blushing red as they blunder as if embarrassed by their fall the elves of autumn cleaning the trees while the doves coo and woo and the Jays covet a squirrels cache of acorns and I, just a small part of the picture walk and tumble through pondering on the permanence of our damage done like a tattoo on the landscape while trying to find a place non human to dispose of my civility a wry smile hidden by a mane of hair as I recognise I’m so much more at peace without that polite formal mimicry.
I cry my land it’s tears touching the winter in frost the wheels of time having churned our vigil to summer burning in candlelight Learning what living looks like in winter time when skeletal remains of leaves dissolve into carpets of dirt
She existed only in the periphery of their vision. No one saw that in her was reflected truth. But maybe they had sensed it and that was why they never turned. She was a mirror, a fractured caricature of the society they tried to withhold. They treated her presence like the absence of something long forgotten. She was the earth and the bubble, the ecosystem that sustained them. Yet they dare not look. The roads they paved both physically and metaphorically were scars upon her arms and wrists. And she bleeds away her sustainability while they continue to carve and crave more and more. And while the Jays perch upon her oak crown and paint the forests, they cut them down. And sometimes she could forgive them, they were after all animals themselves. And some trees got put to good use but then they started to cut too much And the land bared it’s bone.
The night was different shades of black with gold specs, and the moon was a silver goddess shining brightly onto the world when she left. A fleeting love that died like the wilted roses of winter as snow blinkered all our colours in white. The train came at 21:05, and that was that gone in a haze she was just a face staring back from a window with a tear writing sadness upon her cheek. The snow of winter turned grey as it was muddied by the boots of people trudging their days away mindlessly while I noticed every little wish unfulfilled in the stars. A plane shot through my vision, pointing as if it was going to the moon, a trail behind it that is poison in its own polluting way. It occurred to me then that life itself was pollution, everything was spinning on this globe, and everything was interacting within it. Yet we pulled ourselves outside of it with our distractions and words, but I know now it was only ever an illusion. That we are the earth, as are the birds and the other beasts that share this world. And the train shook on the tracks, our goodbyes said only in our staring eyes as the train rushed past, and I knew I’d never see her again. yet she was still the earth as was I, even after the train tracks drew a divide between us I didn’t yet know if that was comforting or all the more painful. These goodbyes always feel like the end of the world, still, it turns, but somehow it doesn’t always help to remember that fact. Our emotions never could stick to the notion of calendars and diary planners sometimes, an anniversary feels too quick in the heart and loss too long in the dark. Neither of us waved, our eyes blinking through the sadness that words couldn’t express. My eyes took a picture of her face in the window while it never left; it fades as the days go by, her absence getting more noticeable with every feature lost in the memory. It seems to me absence is a lot like a cockroach nothing can kill these beasts
Shut up buttercup and lay in the grass We’ll watch the Jays fly past his blue feathers not so covert the king of the oaks Watch him fly and gleam all that he knows His dinosaurian voice And moustachioed wisdom calling to us the harshness of reality as we lay back on fields of yellow soft beneath our skin yielding to our unrelenting bodies in this monstrous yet wondrous world