The rock soaks into me,
And the winds,
And the thundering waves
Trying to climb up towards me.
And the little yellow flowers,
Not clinging to the cliff
But thriving in adversity.

They soak and sink and change my flesh and bones,
Make my blood sing of a beginning almost remembered.
They starve my past and future, and feed the moment.
They silence, soothe and calm everything that isn’t Now.

Sept 2016 ©jsmorgane

The Marschallin: ‘Sometimes, in the small hours…’

Your ear like a shell, cream-coloured

And tinged with a flush

Around the smooth edges,

Almost transparent

In the early sun.


Your skin like finest sands

With the dawn upon them.

A curling lock of your dark hair,

Lank on your forehead,

Moist with the night.


Your neck proudly arched,

Like a harp’s harmonic curve,

Strings echoing a chiming clock.

And when I rest my head on

Your youthful breast

I hear the faint sound of passing time…



Red amongst a lot of Grey

The last thing you notice is taste.
That it’s gone, I mean.
You eat, and that’s hard work anyways,
But you complain about it not tasting as it did
At home. Home, well, a home now.
Then, after years of enduring this food
You realise you just don’t taste anything anymore.
Salt stays the longest. And … spicy, also. But even that goes
And food turns grey.

Also because you can’t see the colours anymore.
Or not so clearly anyways.
Glasses get thicker, then useless,
And after the magnifying glass there are
Just indistinct shapes. Yes, indistinct.
The colours go later. But they, too, fade.
Slowly but surely and by the time you notice
The world around you is edgeless and grey.
So the food tastes grey and the world looks grey.

And on TV everything is a blur.
You would think they’d forgotten how TV works.
But I’m told it is just different, nowadays.
I liked the one presenter, now what’s his name,
You know, the one with the hair, the beard, I mean,
He did this show about things. You know.
Or maybe you don’t, you’re too young to remember
And I’m too old to remember anything clearly.

No, no. Some things are clear. When I was young.
But remembering it in colours, in smells, in tastes,
Becomes difficult. To say nothing of sounds.
That’s been gone for so long I can’t remember
Much at all. Beethoven – loud, proud. Mozart playful.
My piano. Oh, how my fingers flitted over to keys.
This is clear now, and the piano was white,
No matter how often people tell me pianos come in black.
It was white and I wore a red shirt that day…

Red, yes, red is the best colour. I can still see it.
It is not strong but in all the greyness of this silent,
Tasteless world around me red means something.
It means red shirts, and red umbrellas for walks in the rain,
And the table cloth for Christmas, and the sky before nightfall.
A red balloon. Maybe, just maybe, the little girl
Who comes with her father and runs around outside.
Maybe she’ll have one when she comes next time.
Maybe tomorrow. Soon.

© jsmorgane (June 2012)

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