Sometimes there are lines, stanzas that I write, that will need something else to help them reach a conclusion. They may never become more than a fragment in a notebook, or they may just become a line somewhere else unintended. Lost and melancholy or the capturing of a moment of peace in a busy day, whatever they are to become they are more for being written. They become part of the history of a journey, perhaps one day my family down the line will find them and wonder where I was or what we were doing at the time, a mystery of the past for them to uncover.
The scent of pine, and fresh water lake,
hour old rain and flowers on the banks.
Your quiet spreading across the table,
a waiting perhaps for it all.
And time becomes heavier than before
where we sit at the café with coffee so bad
in a plastic cup we smile and drink it anyway.
There is no location, we could be anywhere,
eyes closed and surrounded by mountains
the water is a clear blue green darkened
by fair weather clouds passing quickly.
Cloudy night, wind drawn closed curtain darkness.
I listen for you breathing, for anything
to prove I am not alone in the night.
I have finished the notebook we bought in Venice in 2011, and started a new one bought in Paris from Shakespeare and Co. Endings and a new beginning, I need to go back over the last pages and work on the notes from this our most recent trip, mountains and scenery have filled my head with images that need sorting out into something usable.
In the meantime, have fun with the changing world, the weather is not against you it is simply what it is, just like you.