grounded.
That time between night and day
When the sky, incandescent blue,
Glows soft like a nursery night-light
And the clouds, still fluffy yet now iron-made
Seem to hang not in the sky nor before it
But elsewhere
And the hills and mountains,
Each in perspective, fade their mauve front
As if placed there
By a stagehand between acts
All in a line, yet paint deepened
To create distance.
The trees and shrubs, of course,
Grow darker black in nearer fields
And softly gain gray, dove gray,
Rosey blue branches the nearer
To the east they grow – as if sucking
The sun’s lightness straight from the soil.
This is the time through which I walked,
Dear friend trotting along side
Tail wagging, collared neck faithfully clinking
Like change in the pocket.
The leaves, rattling a little, breathing
Lengthy sighs at each exhale of wind,
Gave nothing away of the fierce gale
Which raged within my mind as I strode on.
But the storm inside my head was
A constant one, so constant that I
Had no memory of when it had begun
And all I knew of it was the shivering state
In which it left me.
Head back, a star, one of the brightest,
Shoots through the steely clouds
Like a bullet aimed at some far-off heart.
The meal has been served and stomachs
Are full of anticipation,
Trolleys, with contents gently plinking, have
Been pushed up the aisle and now
The pillows are being offered to snoozing
Seat-holders while sleep-drugged businessmen,
Shirts rumpled, minds churning over tomorrow’s
Proposal, are passed by.
Here and there an over-head light shines
Yielding poor sight for reading
(those sorry sleepless travelers)
But looking pleasant like scattered stars.
I wish I could be there, breathing
That over-oxygenated air and hearing
Those precarious engines drone on.
Marseilles, I bet, spicy sea air sucked into
Flaring nostrils as the mouth surrounds rich wine
And the tongue spits olive pits
From the balcony window.
Or maybe London, swarming Cockney
Voices and fretting, sweating bodies
Crammed into underground torture chambers
Of stress. Mind the Gap!
Soles crunch on the gravel road
And the neighbor’s sprinklers chug
In satisfied green.
Dear Jones will be proud, I think
For I am grounded.
Your writing is beautiful. I always would read your blog entries on HGS. I’m not sure if you remember me, but I was royael on HL. Years ago I would chat with you from time to time over aim
. I hope you continue to blog. I’ve always admiered you, your riding and Sunny. I cannot remember where I found your blog, but it has always been a great treat to read your latest adventures.
I know what it feels like to be un-inspiered at times and you feel like you’re in a rut of sorts. But that only means better things are to come.
When I feel like that about my riding for example, I sit down, watch and read anything horse. It’s not hard to get that fire beneath you and then up you go ready to put your new found knowledge to use.