Perception

 

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As she considers the space
between possibilities
where thought
and synapse
intersect,
she passes the static, the absence
and presence
of concrete and abstract.

Today, new eyes, a
shallow stream, further on
small birds
and the desire to name them –

a sound
on the tongue
shaped by neuron
and oxygen –

glistening wings
still wet
with ideas
and impossible perception.

 

Glimmer

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There is a stillness
by this lake,
a mist rises
from the moist earth
and spreads
along the ruined ramparts
of these city walls.

But in the darkness
shines a glimmer
of a tender place,
exposed and snagged
in the fluidity of light
and shadow.

I feel its tug
and pull, the presence
at the edges
of myself and gravity.
I know how it rides
the spirit of Horse,
the storm in its mane,
the ocean of its creation.

Soon we will riot through the waters
of resistance, soar over moons.

Synthesis

bigpreview_Water Drops on a Leaf

How can a leaf
be described
without knowing
of its intricate design –

its connected journey
with the sun
and rain,
its synthesis with light?

I see a waterfall
within its serrated edges,
inside its veins
burns an orange moon –

a soul overflowing,
delusions stripped away
like the bark from a tree.
It shows me how to write.

A language on the air
like breath, a mind
an ocean, a country,
a single leaf.

Binary Oppositions

She sits
wide awake,
alert,
a synergy
of blood and breath

behind incurved glass,
pale persistent walls,
bustling bureaucrats –

a phone rings
from another room      she                    cannot          get
to –

holding on, letting go
of signs, distant, opaque,
stars transmuted
from the darkest matter.

The reflection blurs into silica
and ash, but she’ll find it
again, that misplaced sense of self –

in the trick of light on snow
or in a lightning flash,

or maybe on an airless day
between the binary oppositions,
traces and clicks.

The Seagull

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And brazenly, the seagull swoops
to the ground, flying in like a fighter jet,
with beady eyes, wings the colour of clouds.
Its clarion cry is pitched against the rumble
of some machine as it searches
among the desiccated fridges,
a rusted TV set, the rotting innards
of discarded plastic bags. The call it gives
is one of seaweed and kelp, the sting
of salt on the wind as the tide rushes in.
But here it is, on terrain thick with broken bottles,
sticks and mouldy fishing nets, the sickly stench
of waste a weight in the summer air.
It is one of life’s scavengers, the garbage can
of birds, ungainly looking, brash, and yet
can glide across the skyline with a grace
we cannot share, rooted as we are to the land.

 

 

 

@2014 Louise Hastings