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.

 

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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.

Silhouettes

Image

These long summer days
wait by drowsy trees,
an empty lane, a signpost
which points towards low clouds
and a livid purple sky.

I can’t breathe
while the storm vibrates this way –
a sky on fire,
shapes and silhouettes
in the lightning flash,
shadows beating against the rain.

Then a sudden break in the clouds –
a swallow dips and dives, spins
a pirouette –
and a heart which feels so light
you think it must belong to someone else.
So much lost. So much yet to gain.

 

 

@Louise Hastings 2014

Lost in Blue

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That moment of waking,
deserted streets, a pale
washed out sky, a woman
out alone, her footsteps tip tapping
along the bridge, a rushing
whoosh, a train thundering by
and a town like any other,
the dawn opaque, the woman, me.

The wind blows colder
and she isn’t lost, just half-dreaming
as morning shadows
fall across the kerbs and side streets –
a gust of wind, a bird taking flight,
then a break in the clouds. sunlight on glass
and the night forgotten,
the backdrop timed to her pulse.

 

 

©2013 Louise Hastings