Wheels of weeds are wound in rings and spiral down in coils from the sky. |
Wheels of weeds are wound in rings and spiral down in coils from the sky. They sway beneath the fire-folk, those delicate stars that slip with sibilant song from night into day and waver in the dawn blush and dusk-dimmed stasis. Sour with sinning, clouds brush across them, dragging the wind. Wailing, they crack open like Easter eggs in little fingered hands. Yet the candles above keep their diamond-shine, ignoring the warisons wanton whine and the grey cold lawns shimmer into gold in the flicker that simmers through. Wading through the unshod night I imagine those pixies fluttering with their little lanterns bright and kissing the rose cheeks of the morning as they skim our surface of the world. They lowly lull through life above the curls and whirls of winter weather and the green tinge of sun-dappled summers. The purple light and umber disguises any dense, driven desires until the elvish eyes wink, they see it, they see it all and keep it until needed. Soft sand in an hourglass sifts itself as I turn it once, twice, again. I watch the sky turn. High floods go out with the tide and storms roll in ecstasy in the wild sky before vanishing. The moon comes and goes, throwing on and off her ragged cloak. The sun is tugged through the blue-black sky in dandelion springs and nuclear autumns. Twenty-six thousand turns and a further two hundred and another ninety-seven. Each turn an hour. For each turn half of them are spent longing, letting my eyes linger on the dazzle-dimpled dancers that race in cotton skirts through the sky. Watching them I wait. Wait for darkness to descend again with my wishing-giving friends. Bring him back. Bring him back. The rest of the turns of silver-silk sands fall in silent ribbons, as I peer between the baby hair weeds and try to see through the English cloud and ignore the orange glow of city life and look up. Look up, love. Maybe we are looking at the same sky. |