Mobiles and mosaics
cross-legged like a Buddha,
he sits amidst his art –
yesterday’s throwaways,
a cavalcade of lived rubbish,
myriad lost colours and fabrics,
metals, paper, sticks and yarn.
idly watching his garden grow
from disfunction into movement,
hazy flowers from tight bulbs,
sprouting into perfume around him.
It makes him proud, the shapes
he sculpts with his gnarled hands.
caresses on the wind. Mosaics
witness nature’s cracks reformed,
mirrors blotched, sound sprinkling
from a mobile spinning around
and around, echoing, re-evaluating,
rebecoming something new.
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