In early morning
Doe eyes follow our passing
Three deer by the sea

Fortune-teller

A spider hammock hangs
On its gossamer strings
As raindrop crystals tell
Of what the future brings

Advertisement

To Moth

A moth flits from the open window and lands on my knee. It tickles. Does he know how short his life will be or wonder where he is going? What the meaning of his existence is? No. He just ‘moths’. Action born of instinct. To do. Not to think.

How quickly I could end him.

I don’t, and he moths away. Fluttering his little brown wings without a care in the world.

Meanwhile I am left sitting looking at him. Trying to work out if it is possible to just ‘human’ and what just humaning is.

Is there a way to be which just embraces every moment as it comes, moves from moment to moment in blissful ignorance?

The moth comes back wondering if my bare leg is something interesting.

Then flits away again.

I sit and read for a little. Wondering if this is what humaning is. At least in part. Sharing experiences. Whether messages and conversations are like the moths as they dance around a candle. Or am I the candle? Burning slowly. Not wanting to burn too fast, too bright, lest I run out of fuel, waiting for someone to come along and snuff me out.
That lingering smoke smell the afterthought of my existence. The reminder of my light and presence. Reminder of the light that was.

The moth flies out of the window.

I hope it finds another moth. It may not be the most beautiful, elegant or intelligent of creatures but it is, just like me. Doing what it does.
Trying.

Sometimes finding what it is looking for, even when it isn’t looking for it.

_______

I wrote this some time ago when thinking and writing a little more than I have been of late as a message to somone I hold very dear to me, someone I always will hold dear to me, always. 

It strikes me that what I said then applies so appropriately to how I am and what is, that it should be something I am more open about. To be, to Moth, to Human; these are things which should come naturally yet we constantly fight against them. 

I hope that for at least a moment every day, with or without anyone or anything else in my life, I might be able to find the ability to just BE.

Alba

Raindrops hang
Tentatively
On a barbed wire fence
Grey skies
Where clouds forget to fly
In sore distress
Weep their woes
Upon hard earth below

Tide and time

The foaming fingertips of waves
Born upon the ocean’s roar
Touching brief in peaked salute
As down they bear upon the shore
Softly ending, effortless drifting,
Begin their journey home, once more.

Lost

On lofty peaks horizons wide,
Challenges in silence sound
Looming thoughts through mists of time
Memorial leviathans stand round.

Thick fog envelopes thought and sight
Above the water still below,
In seeking stumble feared of plight
A weary chest heaves crumbling soul.

The journey ends yet now I’m shown,
All ways obscured in coming storm,
Where feet should find a path to home,
The compass spins, not polar drawn.

Unwilling thus to let it end
I step on, forward, then again.

Wilderness

I look across this now so foreign world,
As thick grey smoke of progress blots the sun,
And choke on futures bought for blood not earned,
With heaviness, my heart is come undone.
For towers graze a sky which once was blue,
With wooded hills the pinnacles of land,
Blessed old now fast replaced with brutal new,
And sadly gone is beauty at their hand.
I wake from startling dreams which leave me ill,
Of futures which I pray will never come,
Look out the window to see green of hills
And dawning over mountains, golden sun.
Might I, with nature, hold against the tide
And walk these hills, in love of nature’s pride.