Commonword Blogs

We gathered bark
cracked tender trunks:
Flecks of wood splintered alpine air.

Over crumbly ground we traisped
Slid stones from their spot
Built a campfire: A Raging Teepee.

Scorched fingers and toes
Bodies turned;marshmallows charred
Penetration of heat on flesh, sugar and bone.

I shuddered at the silence
The glowing murmur of our enclosure
The Roar of Waterfall.

Mopping up beans
I watched the sky
dismantle the moon

The fire twindled, like our conversation
The funnelled blue light of headlamp
and beyond, blackness.

Tall trees bent inwards

We collected twigs; shavings of bark
dragged fallen trunks - jumped
down til you cracked; like splintered teepee’s.

We traipsed, heaved stones
marking the spot where we found you
Hung up our socks, dripping from melted snow.

Began to build our campfire, one by one
we slid in our sticks, blowing into the heat
scorched toes and fingers.

Huddled together, stirring beans
turning our bodies; marshmallows
the penetration of heat, on fleece
flesh; sugar and bone.

Filled our flasks by the waterfall
sludged back through snow
the faint blue light of headlamps.

Blossom flocks to consecrated corners
kissing gravestones and the feet of park benches
blessed by shadows of evening light

And

Pilgrims of praying bluebells, along the roadside
under shrubs; up paths to homes:

Held by a cuckoos chorus
sending you into serene sleep.

White paws patter an April morning sky
Garden furniture sinks into sappy peat.
Half of my face cool, the other tinged heat.
The cat nudges my arm; I yawn then sigh.

White sheets straddle washing lines.
Blow in the wind, from the bellow of
petrol station attendants, who make
rainbows on windscreens with their elbows.

Yaki Niku smoulders on charcoal.
Mochi melts all corners of my mouth,
it's red centre, like Lava. The Black
inviting eyes of the female sushi chef
as she shapes the tuna.

Childrens bags' bounce with pokemon.
Hello Kitty key rings, swing from their straps.
Yellow hats, synchronize on red, scatter on green.

Tennis balls pop, on a soft clay court.
An old man stubbles, his white cane scrapes

It’s my last day. I’ll never see the tall telephone cables, from the corner of my eye,
where they join up, black, look like crows; waiting.
Or the
Pink, blue and yellow futon’s, hanging over balconies,
blowing in the wind, from the holler of petrol station attendants,
Who make rainbows on windscreens with their elbows, egging cars, in and out.

I’ll never smell yaki niku, as it smoulders on charcoal:
Amy, splatting me with the fat.
Or
Taste the gumminess of mochi, melting all corners of my mouth:
It’s red centre, like lava.

Painted heels scuff pavements at stop signs,
stones ping on silver spokes.

Bicycle lamps murmur under the
moon's gleam

sultry air strokes rouged cheeks
black lacquered hair glows.

It is late. Four women cycle; swap stories
from their day

dipping down ditches; dirt dashing their socks.

As legs lag, and shoulders hunch in neon shadows
Voices vesper:

Gambatte, gambatte.

Giggling, oyasuminasai, oyasuminasai

Oyasumi.

River rises, butterflies snuggle in her banks,
sparrows settle by the sunflowers, scorched.

A dragonfly nips the water, the wind combs
the rice fields, yellow and green.

River is idle, scabby rubbish clings to her banks;
She scorns the sun.

River rushes, heavy clouds drown her,
She soars, like sirens.

River sleeps, ripples reduce moon to small man,
He trembles.

Four girls’ - side by side, cycling:
Swapping stories from their day

Baskets brimmed with books and bags.

An April breeze brushes their cheeks;
ruffles their navy skirts’

Dipping down ditches, dirt, dashing socks.

Laughter lifts them up from their saddles; shoes scuff
at stop signs, jutting corners, stones ping against
spokes.

Silence, as they approach home

The droning of bicycle lamps, drowned by dead pedals.

Dawdling to their doors, heaving holdalls.

They say goodnight, stepping inside their houses:
Hoping to sleep, parents pester.

We took the same route every Sunday. My Gran had to drag Bazil out of the front door, he was so fat. The hill we climbed seemed so far away from the cosiness of my Gran’s front room. The wind often gushed it’s way through your jumper, duffle coat and into your bones, leaving your teeth chattering and lips blue.