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.

 

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.

The Seagull

Gull_ca_usa

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

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

Gravity

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The poem I start to write
wants to breathe
balanced
between the rhythm
of my heartbeats
and the fabric of the sky.

I rest my body in the space
left by these dissolving walls
and hear his voice
echo across the miles
like a kinesia of geese,
the vee
shaped by light and dark.

I am no analyst
of the night
but what might seem
so wingless
flies over oceans
and has a gravity all its own.

 

@Louise Hastings 2014