Living in the ice house
I have grown used to the rape fields
But not their colour
Colour disturbs the monochrome mind.
In the distance two trees
Pretend they are green
To please the flowers
Who read well
With the aid of mirrors.
Recently I have begun to question my parentage
We are all descended from rooks
But of late my feathers
Have become more mottled
Almost flesh like in tone
This concerns me as I enjoy flight.
Exploring further
The glow of the driftwood
Confuses me
I stop my thoughts
And write twenty poems
About driftwood
In time the glow fades
But I can still taste the sulphur in the air
Which is a pleasurable sensation.
By dawn my feathers are gone
But I can still fly
Which is a compromise of sorts
I am bothered by jackdaws
But they do not steal my clothes
Which in reality are rags
Good only for gliding
In the trade winds.
Stories are still to be found on the thermals
But these are getting scarce
The best stories by far
Are to be found in the deep overgrown pits
Which are populated by the wild cats
These cats usually attack from a left handed direction
As I am right handed I do not fear them
They linger in the shadows
Occasionally interrupting the narrative with their howls
But this is of no consequence.
I cannot fly now
I have not flown for a while
I do not miss flying
I am much smaller
My mother is also small
It is much hotter now
The ovate blinds shade me .
In the late afternoon
I visit a friend
Who is counting
The growth rings
Of a fallen oak
The task has tired him
He is dry now
I am still moist.
There are nearly nine hundred rings in this tree
Some are quite bleached and almost invisible
Others towards the parameter are bold
And travel the whole circumference of the trunk
I am now counting them
Starting at sixhundredandninetythree
And finishing at sevenhundredandsixteen
I have been instructed not to count outside of this sequence.
My skin feels tougher and does not tire
Even though the heat is intense
I wonder if numbers feel changes in temperature
Or are they protected by their sequence ?