dVerse Witness

In the Same Way an Algebraic Equation Can

A morning walk can empty my brain.
I am walking my customary route, 
past the oak tree, its acorns rolling
underfoot like marbled pebbles on
a Sussex beach.

Oh how I love delicate batter fried cod
and sharp stinging sea air in my lungs.

Holly berries, pressed into bursts of red,
and now a right turn toward the creek.
I see the nettles have returned to roots.

And when this lockdown is a history,
I shall brace myself on a bald chalk hill,
sea air salting my hair and filling my head.

The creek’s running high from overnight
rain, and I am bright as green this morning.
Spring-like in mid-November. To my relief,
she’s coming home from hospital today.

My lovely old aunt who is a seam
of myself. We are all destined to end,
and perhaps I shall know hers when
a soft gust of wind closes my door.

And now over the footbridge. My shoes
beat warm tones of wood underfoot.
Is there a word for that sound – that
mellow percussion of wood?

Memory can be exhausting.
And now

through the iron kissing gate, and into
the forest. A tickle of leaf mould in
damp air. Reds and golden ambers
for the doubters. A snap of a twig.

Again, it’s the wood. The woods.
What is the word for that sound?

dverse neighbourhood witness (I tried to keep to Peter’s prompt but the result was disappointing, so I went a bit off piste with it)    © Misky 2020

16 responses to “dVerse Witness”

  1. I love this poem. Such beautiful images, and poetically-framed questions:

    ‘Is there a word for that sound – that
    mellow percussion of wood?’

    ‘And when this lockdown is a history,
    I shall brace myself on a bald chalk hill,
    sea air salting my hair and filling my head.’ – what a liberating thought!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Just lovely (tears brimming). The internal dialogues, the precise descriptions – the internal and external melding and separating again – and all that’s left unsaid. Wonderful stuff – so glad you ‘went off piste’ for this.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I so enjoyed the structure of the words, and the weaving of that internal dialogue with what’s happening in your morning walk. Memory can be exhausting. I love this description:

    My lovely old aunt who is a seam
    of myself

    Liked by 1 person

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