Not til the third maybe fourth deep sip of sweet tea does my body begin to cushion the boneknocking rhythm of the drumming that has rolled it's welcome like carpet over the dark hours and the Wessex plains; my face is one of sleepless thousands turned east waiting the return of a warm hearted friend for the longest of days, I stand in fields of good wishes and the impossible blue giants of Preseli feeling wet grass between my toes remembering another June day breaking in a place not so very far from here where the drumming was the beating of club against flesh and the wetness at our feet was dripping and brutal, I see others that share the taste of undiluted bitterness and still others watching strangely the strange folk old enough to know (better?) than to curse the footfall of each passing police issue boot; some wounds time heals in it's own time and though we grow older I would be glad now if time hurried a little; a gentle breeze smooths the fields softly dropping fine mist over my ghosts that thickens like dark cloth on the eastern hills, collectively we stare at the distance willing a tear through it while up above our heads there is a pink sky calling for the red sun rising and we are here, as we always are, to remember our tales and bear witness.
On the day she turned to dust she asked the wind to be her friend and it picked her up and ran her through the fingers of it's hands and it poured her into pockets and whispered to hold on and before the church had emptied they were gone..
For those who are regretful is becoming more forgetful ageings saving grace ? If your memory starts to slip does the bitterness untwist and the frown turn upside down upon your face? I know it sounds bizzare but if you don't know who you are do they matter still, those things you didn't do? The reason that I ask is I can't ressurect the past and I need something to look forward to.
She watches at her window for the sun to reappear and when it's warmth is on her eyes she knows her friends are near she smiles because she's happy now and turns around to play hand puppets with her playmates before they fade away.
If today the anxiety boiling my head boils it inside out and today is the day looks really can ****, then today I shall have to be careful to avoid at all times still water polished metal plate glass and people in sunglasses, because today (or any day) I don't want to be a victim of reflective suicide..
Old Father Jack followed the track trying to find his way home, heavy of heart and foot in the dark cut by the wind to his bones; old Father Jack night on his back battered by gale and rain, cried out for the Lord who thundered and roared and took old Jack home on a train.
Using silence as the means to express his dismay he was going to make a statement and say nothing all day but his mother just assuming he had nothing much to say sent the silent revolutionary back outside to play. Outmaneuvered by his mom and her total disregard for his wild campaign of muteness the rebellion fell apart peaceful protest hadn't worked he should have guessed right from the start it makes no difference when you're quiet if no-ones listening very hard.
Back when I was a nipper my parents moved us away from our home in the city. I didn't speak to them for weeks. They either didn't notice or were more practiced in the art of psychological warfare than me. I suspect the latter
Using silence like a megaphone to broadcast his dismay
he tried to make a statement without speaking for a day
but his mother just assuming that he'd nothing much to say
sent her silent revolutionary son outside to play;
outmaneuvered in the kitchen by his mother's disregard
for the planned campaign of muteness, his rebellion fell apart
to the sound of scuffing shoes and the grumble in his heart
cos peaceful protests tend to lose when no-one's listening very hard..
Climbing slowly up the back stairs softly crossing to the door pushing gently knocking empty bottles to the bedroom floor, empty pledge asleep on bedsheets broken, blind and in my chest I can feel an ageing drum's beat marking time, and emptiness.
There are those who keep their future rich with uncertainty, but Ive never been more certain of the one that waits for me, if I ever catch Fate's finger spelling out whats going to be then I'll wrench it back to front and start re-writing history.
Do you remember that midwinter night the one with ice in the air the one that we burned until it turned white that nobody else could stand near do you remember the dance of the slender flames as they tortured the cold when they were done you glowed like the sun's tongue had been licking your soul.
I like the sound the rain makes I like to hear it land with the thunderous drumming of a punk rock band. I like it dancing off the roof tiles tapping at the glass tickling the fields although its quieter on grass. I like its change in rhythm as it navigates trees the ragged umbrellas that Im standing underneath. I like it playing percussion on the surface of the sea when the only people still outside are listening like me. I like the sound the rain makes wherever it lands I like the sound the rain makes but I also understand your devotion to the sun so theres a possibility if you listen to the rain fall you might understand me.
and I quite like the wind too. I like the sound the wind makes blah blah blah. :o)
Free flow the waters of the river passing by, though we thought we'd caught her sleeping when we heard their lullaby, and though with a thousand bridges we bound her where she lay still her waters pass like lifetimes and we watch them slip away.