Canvases
The water-bearer revels in blue,
scoops dripping earth in supple hands,
smells the drenched woven moss
where gravel paths traipse under waking stars.
Globules streak down silent canvases,
ideas woken by a single thought.
Somewhere, an urn will empty out,
its ridges worn by the prints of fingers,
an individual script of the heart.
We stroke passion with a palette knife.
The
shark
Stone-grey
on pristine sand, sunk in,
stripped bare of watery hands,
smooth
backbone, ribless hide,
curved
yet curveless, as if at rest,
land-ripped
and swum out,
its
etched prints obliterated
by
human feet and racing paws.
Whole,
it drifted in on the wrung tide,
mortally
wounded. It lingers now
in
black and white review,
almost
entertainment, an awakening
to the
fate of the oceans deep.
We
remain as a shield, all muttering
our
five-minute silence beneath sound.
Bookends
Motion
breaks, swift recall,
steam
exhausts, fuels a language
written
in grey out of jest.
The
watchers stand as bookends,
nod
like magpies, silenced out.
Idle
hands accomplish nothing new
without
inspiration, a truce.
We lend
knowledge unwritten,
a dial
without a single number,
the
contrary grown so fine
that no
line exists at all.
The lamb
Dew-set,
the open track yawns,
awaits
the entry of the crop.
A lone
lamb stands adrift of the flock,
stares
down a valley of wildflowers.
Clouds
flick their pearl cirrus wave.
Forlorn
trees, a jive of limbs,
signposts
to the effervescent breeze.
A red
hand marks her hide,
the stamp
of ownership too loud
to be
forgotten. It stands forgiven.
In
ignorance, the flock devour
the land, fail to check her wandering path,
leading
her far from these verdant hills.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 2024
