Sunday, February 21, 2010

Spelunking

The sound of laughter
conjures up a thread of dreams
long since hidden carefully
and slipped in between friction and air

For that day we stood taking shelter
beneath my favourite folding willow tree
I imagined I was tumbling downhill

It must have been the rain,
which caused me to become so maudlin and dreamy
Or it could have been the arrow,
which cracked out with assurance across the sky

But then I know
it was just the beating of a moth’s wings
As it hovered gently
wavering innocently over some other continent

Unaware of the beauty in its stirrings

3 comments:

Jenny Enochsson said...

"slipped in between friction and air"

The gap between transitional stages are always very interesting.

Francis Scudellari said...

I like the interconnectedness depicted here, the profound effect that small things can have on us, especially when we're rolling down love's steep slope. It's a piece filled with little epiphanies.

The Scrybe said...

@ Jenny: An echo held inside a niggling sense of déjà vu...

@ Francis Scudellari: The roll down the slope can change from a pleasant one to a painful one, in an instant, and then back again...

Thank you both :)