It's Still Life

What they Never Tell You Could Fill a Book (reading time: 00:01.14)

It’s dawn.
The moon laughs.

My dogs are running
through the forest. For the lake.
Gasping at air,
chasing around chestnut trees.
Around birch trees gleaming
white in their own shadows.

I play here.
Climb trees.
Feed magpies. Squirrels.
Leave seeds for robins.

And
I fall out of trees.
Pretend to be a horse.
Jump fences.

Stain my fingers purple
blue and black from berries.
Ruin my clothing.

The big yew tree by the lake
is my patron saint.
It’s older than Grandad,
but he says
it’s not older than Gran.

Gran grows flowers
and herbs and food.
I give her plants water when
they have thirsty eyes.
Look into their faces, Gran says.

Geraniums.
Lots of geraniums. Red ones
for strength. White ones
for foregiveness.

Anything red is an uprising.
White is a talisman.
That’s what Gran says.

Even when the sky is grey
it’s blue.
Even when water is still
it ripples.

This is me.
Then. Back then. And now.
It was a glimpse of heaven.

The next year I started school.
It all started going wrong after that.

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Written for Glo/NaPoWriMo Day 8: Your alter-ego and Writers’ Digest: What They Never Tell You ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #glopowrimo #napowrimo on Twitter. Photo by Hillie Chan on Unsplash.