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.
Journey
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.
Two Haiku
Rose Opal Harem
Ivy Alley
Splintered winsomeness
rose opal veil
cushioned winsomeness
parakeet in alley
The copyright of these posts belongs to Rachel Morrell
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