The Persian carpet
You leave your unique pattern on my heart
Woven through with intricate care
Threads of gold, sienna and cerulean
Repeating your consistency.
Outside stark winter marks out its lines with geometric precision.
Ice cobalt and umber.
Bleakness has its own appeal
Still, unfettered loneliness
Tranquil moors flowing to the horizon
Flattened with usage, worn thin in parts.
You touch the burnished lamp on your return
Diffused light spreads. Rose ochre hues. Warm and familiar ease
The missing piece revealed.
Kybele Roof Terrace.
A variation on ‘Lewis’
Should we care what the model of the car was? What was hidden in the glove box?
It could be many things; a hummingbird waiting to be set free, a rusty Victorian key, a lotus blossom.
I haven’t a hope of understanding the situation. Is the murder an open and shut case?
It is not straightforward. Someone trying to equal the division of wealth?
Back to the quest.
I wonder what was in the boot. It could be a micro light, my turquoise suitcase, or our other car? (It’s a big boot). The remote hides its locking system and I can’t work out which button to press to open the boot. The darkness of the boot hides the pride of pain.
I wish I had less of a desire for order and neat solution. I wish I didn’t have to give the ending and the answer. What bleak spec is in my eye? My eyelids close on the openness of anguish
I reopen my eyes and decide to forget about opening the boot.. I see a pristine turquoise padlock and turn the tiny key. The lock springs open. I’ll leave it dangling on the gate as a memento.
I’ll give up trying to solve this pointless mystery. I break the passenger window with a rock; I break into the glove box with a chisel and release the hummingbird. It flitters across the valley like a shiny thread of fizzing joy.
Shall we make a plan? No, not today. I have the desire to reach the zenith on the charabanc covered in the rose perfume of the East.
Shall we go straight? No not today. I want to wander through decrepit alleyways strewn with decadence and festooned with ivy.
The path forks. Shall we choose which one to take? No, not today. Let’s toss a coin into the fountain.
Shall we take the iron road? A base metal but practical. The charabanc would have argument with this path. Let’s follow the yellow brick road that winds round and round.
Shall we pass the pool? The reflections show harems strewn with concubines languishing on lace cushions. Overflowing with fruitfulness.
Prim and proper Alice looking through the glass is confused. The reflections make her woozy. She prefers the portrait of Arnolfini and his wife constrained endlessly within their mirror.
On return I look in the my oval mirror which reflects the sixty four lamps suspended above the bed. Travelling forward with repetition and illumination.
Rose Opal Harem
rose opal veil
parakeet in alley
The copyright of these posts belongs to Rachel Morrell