The rain is hitting the pavement.
As I look out of the window I can see the ripples in the puddles.
Another day.
The droplets on the back rest of the bench grow fatter. The rain has drained all the colours from the sky. No colour, no smell, no taste. Just the drizzle, the white sky and the birds, shrieking at each other over bread crumbs.
I.
Once upon a time there was a girl who would only feel at peace with the world when she was on the highest roof top of her town.
From there she would sit and watch the hustle below her – people going in and out of shops, old ladies going for yet another cup of coffee with their friend, young people going for yet another takeaway together, toddlers in push chairs, mums looking lonely, builders fixing buildings and… birds.
Root yourself into the ground;
Like a tree.
Years after years after years
Roots grow deep.
What do you say to the country side,
when you come back after all these years?
The river in a hurry runs wild.
Bank swallows scheme and skim
over rising waters.
Bellies full of insects,
too soon they will gather.
Their departure grows near,
I miss them already.
as the sun disappeared
behind the horizon
the clouds make way, scattered
set the sky ablaze, sun.
This is...
a flashback,
slice of a previous life.
from a time way back
when I was around 10
sharing apricots
with dear lama Purtse.
Fairy tales are all man made.
Women wouldn’t write stories
portraying themselves as such
shallow, vain, fragile roses.
