Photo Credit: Louise Hastings
Somewhere in the half-light
hangs my moon,
a silver veil, beams of change
transforming shadows, dusty corners.
The night breeze has a chill edge
and I am bound, too much on my mind to sleep.
Light closes and it’s not the darkness that troubles
but the violence in the cold, clear day.
Beginnings turn to endings,
disappointments, the same circles formed.
A woman at the window
is watchful as the storm rages through.
Copyright 2013 Louise Hastings
Image by Louise Hastings
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul” ~ Emily Dickinson
The sky is open,
wide and dark, a chill
carried on the eastern wind.
A single bird takes flight,
the vacant branch
left black and quiet
and when he turns his head
I can see the clouds
drift across his eyes.
The shadow lingers,
its outline charcoal grey
like mid-December rain
and I would hold that bird,
set it there beside you,
deep inside your winter tree.
Copyright 2012 Louise Hastings
Photograph from National Geographic
My life has often been about chaos
and destruction, a walk into dark alone.
It isn’t pleasant there;
the words I write often sound of black.
But when mindfulness awakes me,
I begin to write of colours and of peace.
Like green is the grass blowing in the wind.
Blue is Neptune spinning round the moon.
Orange is the orange that tastes so good.
Yellow is the sun that warms me to the core.
Red is the colour I could wear and adore.
To finally be able to see
is such a wondrous gift.
There is music in the world,
and rainbows –
sometimes inside of me.
Written for Blognostics Colour Contatenation
Today you moved among the crowds
walking under summer rain,
away from the stench of neglect
taking big steps and small.
You seemed blind to all around,
like a ghost; as if no one could see you,
safe and enclosed in the air
of apathy hanging overhead.
You pulled your coat around you
as your heart beat must have slowed.
Not that you were alive.
I mean, just from watching I could tell.
It’s as if a drought might crash
your doors wide open
and capsize the whole world overboard.
Or has it already?
I shall probably never know.
Sometimes the cut is too deep,
the wounds bleeding and wide open.
I’m not proud of them, never that.
Bitterness is my failure. I take it daily,
feeling its poison thread through my
veins like a drug. It is too costly to be nice;
like the taste of slow torture,
your tongue tracing the salty tracks
made by the tears that stream down my face.
Some things just betray me,
catching my heart in a vice.
The scent of freedom’s a thrill,
being caught out in your gaze;
the freshly mown grass under my feet;
those days by the river, buzzing with dragonflies,
flitting in a whirl of business and wings.
But this is how it is now,
me keeping my distance
watching from afar. What is better,
safe and comfortable or caught out on a limb?
You did your work well
giving me your pain at the start of my life.