Indigo Moon, Deborah Borrett [ready to read books .TXT] 📗

Brumal

It often happens gently:
One day red, orange, autumnal
Then, sky slowly slips grey-ward
Fog saturates fields at early morn
Light fades more swiftly as the month passes by.
The long days elapse slowly
Like a clock whose battery is near depletion,
Its seconds hand fluctuating,
Hovering between time ~
Unsure whether to move forward
Or fall backward in despair.
Mellow days gradually shorten in time
But lengthen in stature
Causing those in their cycle
To slacken
Drift limply
Grasp their security in the dingily coloured familiar.
Next
IT appears.
Initial thought is inclement
Passable
Something temporary shelter can absolve.
But no ~
Frost-bitten dawn retreats
Leaving
A rawness which lingers after the depth of night has passed.
Artic winds engender a bleakness
That gelid blasts alone carry in their wake.
The world submits to the frigidity of the uncontrollable.
Bitter cold encompasses like a finely woven shroud
Trees lay silently wrapped in shivery tombs
Their limbs mummified by the salt of the season.
Fingers of ice stretch their long digits over stagnant water
And reach out toward those caught waiting,
Beckoning what is hidden inside to extricate themselves
From tepid heat into biting circumstance;
Whispering, “Come, feel unmoved in my wintry space ~
Come be withdrawn in this frozen place.”
The air itself is benumbed,
Its physical treachery sinks into human extremity,
Causing toes to stupefy and
Fingers to anaesthetize.
Its worse deceit, however,
Is more than external:
The cold lurks in corners, waiting,
Subduing freezing temperature of mind,
And in mind
~ stealthily chilling the most unreserved of hearts
And rendering it spiritless,
Passionless and indifferent…
She, caused to turn away from him
Resolutely aloof and distant,
He, bound by the reserve of the season
Changes into a character ruled by apathy,
Insensitivity and callousness.
So, IT has won.
Chilly turmoil flung wide over frost bitten land,
Icicled soul captured in brumal climate
As, in the heart of winter,
The ice sprawls and escalates.


Nightfall.

Dusk approaches amidst chattering birdsong
While evening beseeches twilight to allow its apprehensive entry.
And then, for a moment, the world sinks into soundlessness.

Darkness shrouds the hushed earth as
The World becomes entombed in inaudible surrender;
Speckles of dust held encapsulated in grey abandon
Before they are ensnared and buried in the violet curtain
Which wraps the daylight in its cumbersome confinement.
Gloaming pays homage to Night,
Enslaved, caught in its thralldom
As slowly its claustrophobic shadow
Parts to reveal a broken neckline of stars,
Divulged to humanity in a cadence of silence.


Broad Bean

First prodded by chubby finger
And survived an attempted chew,
Was then soaked in frigid water.
They got me out and looked at me,
Rolled me on table top
And flicked me at their cheeky friends
Before the Teacher intervened.
Then with half plastic bottle prepared
By blotting paper and watering can
I was plunged into my plastic tomb
Which, in summer would have sweltered in heat
And spread condensation over its transparent sides,
But it being winter, was placed to
Hot house on school room radiator.
I was left to nestle in,
Tucked inside folds of drenched paper,
Surrounded by dampness
And the clamouring sounds of maths lessons,
Alongside the attempts to repeat syllables of French.
I sat and sat, stewing in shallow water
Half slumbering,
Half alert to the forces of nature within me.
Slowly, surely my surface cracked.
Small tendrils of newly formed shoot
Emerged and stretched lankly.
Eager faces pushed against the face of my birthing ground
And exclaimed at my freshly formed life,
Measure and compared,
Touched to see how I felt.
I relished in my popularity
And with imbibed confidence
Felt able to nourish and grow.
Small fronds established themselves,
Sinking into the soaked blotting paper.
Those delightful children monitored my life:
Willed me to change;
Watched as my feeble interior
Altered into strengthening exterior.
I was admired and cherished,
Loved and coaxed into existence
And happily nurtured during the routine of lessons
Combined with the smell of lunchboxes.
My privileged life was started in cold receipt
Transplanted by moist sweaty palms
Completed in successful growth to maturity.
Consequently I give my fruits to the world.


Butterfly Child.

She approached silently at midnight
Softly;
Tenderly flitting with
Translucent, delicate wings
To settle in peacefulness
On a pillowed crease.

She stroked my hair,
Prayed for me,
Lay awake to watch me breathe.

She felt my longing
And in my sheltered dreams
Allowed me to play
As Mother with Child.

As the pale glimmer of a
Smudged dawn approached,
With sunshine on her wings
My Daughter’s soul
Kissed my cheek;
Leaving me with a
Glistening, mirrored tear.


Coastline in Winter

The day is clear with a crisp blue sky.
The limp warmth from the sun -
Reminiscent of summer heat -
Is creating a reflected orb of light
On glinting water;
It’s rays on my cheek make me smile
And I turn my face toward its light.

It is here that I am at peace
With sand on my soles,
With sand slipping between my fingers.

It is beautiful here.
I have collected a pocket full of shells
Which crunch quietly as I walk,
But I would not be without them there.

From behind
A breeze caresses my neck,
Also causing fronds of grass to waver
In their clumps which emerge from hollowed out places.
Their movement becomes sun-catching,
Their shallow motions catch my eye
And draws my attention for long, still minutes.

I hear, in that breeze, the low-pitched hum of a distant road,
A whistle to Come,
Hoof pounding on sinking sediment,
Child calling to child,
The momentary banter of gulls.

I love to sit and listen.
The erratic sounds soothe me
They allow me to be in the solitude of company,
Encompass me with the sounds of eloquent desolation;
They entice me to acknowledge life
And not let my own life drift past
In arranged slumber.

Here I belong to no-one:
My thoughts and time are my own;
There is no call on my coming or going,
No clamour of bell,
No pull on my emotions
Other than those emotions I allow to divert me.

Here I have the privilege of space:
Capacity in which to forget
Or think ahead
Or simply gaze on the uncomplicated beauty
Of footprints trodden on dimpled sand,
Sea spray cleansing shells
At waters edge,
And the stir of life around me.


Completion.

I thought that because you fill me completely
I might have the chance of fulfilling you.

I understand that I might not be everything
You require me to be.
I understand I might only be a fragment
Of what you desire and need.

I thought you wanted me.

I find traces of shadows in the desires that you have,
Images of others, not of myself;
Whispers of strangers in your eye,
Enhanced by fantasy.

I could provide you with the paper icons you desire,
Fine boned and slender;
Tone and shape myself,
Starved into recognition of another form.

I know I am not who you need me to be.

But all I want is for myself to be engraved upon you.


Fractured.

You have fractured my silence.
You have fractured my silence unforgettably & uniquely
You have dipped your head toward mine
And called me your own
Whispered and called out
Declared & persuaded;
Pushed yourself inside my vacuum
Which is silent no more.
You have fractured my individuality,
I come to think ‘us’ and not ‘I’.
When smallness surrounds me
It is ‘we’ who answer
Like a miniature presence reluctant to leave.
I admire it, and resent it. It tumbles my thoughts like glass being polished.
I waiver
Then turn back to you.
You have fractured my space,
My neatness.
I look around my home
There are images of you here
Scattered
Dropped
Placed by un-thoughtful hand,
By thoughtful mind;
Yet it is empty when you are absent
Filling other spaces.
You have fractured my living
But mended my soul.
I shall love you incessantly,
My Mountain.


Grandchildren.

32 fingers,
8 grubby thumbs,
8 luminous eyes,
4 radiant smiles

4 Grandchildren: Mine

My Grandchildren…

With tangled limbs
And intricate hearts,
Stroppiness and gentleness combined,
Playful glee,
Excited whispers,
Tears and frowns;
Giggles that halt my heart.

In my mindful silence
In my watchful space
They are mine:
I adore them.


Hiraeth.

The Land of My Fathers contains a secret;
A dying passion embedded in its people, in its land.
Hiraeth yn yr Mor. Longing for the sea.
Longing.
An indefinable torture,
Suspended motionless, for a second,
Before it ensnares your soul once again.

Hiraeth.
The calling.

The longing to be enraptured in an alternative place and time;
Deepest yearning ~
Desire to exist within the emotions of Another,
Craving to be outside and apart from yourself,
Given completely to the aspiration of belonging…

Somewhere.
With someone.

How can you communicate your search
When you hunger to understand your hearts stirrings?
Words ~ feeble, inadequate.
Is it enough to let your soul cry out in an anguish beyond keening?
Or rather the trembling hope that catches on the wind
Like a butterfly fresh from its dwelling cocoon?

Hiraeth.

The searching…. The flawed, cracked version of me,
Against the flawlessness of you.


Josephs Tears.

The journey was winding and long.
Endurance played pictures in his mind,
Flashed scenes of childhood, singleness, engagement;
Images that darted across his vision
Like pinpoints of light in the deepest fog.
He tried to stay focussed
But his task was overwhelming,
Pushing his thoughts and imagination to the edges of their survival.
With strength he walked on
Doggedly untiring until he reached his destination.
With relief he sank to the floor
Prepared a meal for sustenance and sleep,
Fashioned a bed and drifted into stillness.
Around him he could hear alien sounds
Mingled with the scent of unfamiliarity.
His dreams were clouded; perturbed and restless
Unsettled by sounds of pain and distortion.
A cry brought his focus into sight.
He looked at his companion, his wife
Whose agony willed courage into his muscles
And understanding into his heart.
In a paused moment there was calm…
There before him lay a newborn child;
Life’s journey uncoiling before him
With all its miracles and purpose.
He picked up his son with gentleness and might
And stared into the eyes of his future
Before his tears kissed the soles of the feet of God.


Keep moving.

One finger, one thumb keep moving,
One finger, one thumb keep moving,
One finger, one thumb keep moving,
We’ll all be merry and bright.

My finger
Your thumb
Our brains, thoughts,
Our lives, our transactions
All keep moving.
But my heart is arrested
By your sincere and uncomplicated beauty.
I can’t always keep my body, or emotions, moving…
Days - not always merry,
Or bright.
Within my complications
I love you.
Always.
I don’t have to force my movements for you.
They are always yours;
Completely.
I force them to keep moving for myself
For fear that I will seize up
And become frozen in time.
Head pounds, ears become tunnels of noise
As fathomless air rushes through
And as I stand silently
My gaze fixes on you
Steadfastly
Because you are my mountain,
My cleft.
You are there because of who you are