Thursday, August 22, 2013


Master of contrast,
a hazy, drowsy shine,
light-grey, almost white
on mahogany wood,
but once wiped away with
an ochre cloth from the screen,
it turns into black dirt,
time’s perpetual birth.
Master of stillness,
accumulating as pupils
of the passing days.
They told us,
and it’s ever so clear,
it’s what we will all turn into,
re-turning I think
to the time when we flew,
before coagulating
into this momentary
substantial mess
in which sometimes
we manage to keep flying,


Crafty Green Poet said...

so true everything is ultimately just dust (and sub-atomic particles...)

A Cuban In London said...

Beautiful poem with very evocative colours in those first lines. I have just come back from Shropshire and had a great experience. Many thanks.

Greetings from London.

Dave King said...

Splendid poem, deep and accessible, could be used for a meditation.