on stories

he was a man who lived on stories
found them daily on the path
like tiny nuggets
that shone under his light

after summer
the awning was raised
to accommodate the sun
lying each day a little lower
in the west

a magpie grasped for balance
on the wire
outside the bedroom window
small flaps to find the balance
against the sway of landing

raised up his head
pointed to the sky

glory glory


glory glory glo-or

such easy praise
joy so nonchalant
balance in the trill
that is his song

he plucked a word
into his hand from empty air
held it open palm
to see where it might go

puffed lightly
let it drift away
satisfied that he understood

after six days
the clove was smooth and moist
full with promise still
but with no sign of a stalk
no green

and what of that
let six turn into twelve
let time be arbiter
let the clove
find the heart it needs
to grow

what is time
if not that space

he walks
anticipation in each stride
towards a thing
that must be seen
that must be drunk
and tasted

he walks
on the outskirts of dreams
a step inside them

in the mirror are eyes
that watch
as keenly as the watcher

a familiar stranger
dressed in deep etched lines

in sags
and grey

the face that holds the eyes
is alive
amused perhaps
ready to look upon
another stage that is a journey
complete within itself

happy tale

he stoops to the daisy
colours gone

calls to mind purple
and gold
contemplates the ending of a thing

the start

© Frank Prem, 2009


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