It's Still Life

Timelessness

The brick wall
by the milking shed is old.
Older than anyone’s
memory goes.
And ferns sprout
between weather-gnawed bricks,
ledges like untidy eyebrows,
and green grows
without direction or restriction.
And the sun rises over
that wall in the morning.
Slowly. Slow
as the neighbour’s
green-eyed cat
when its name is called.
Everything
moves at its own pace here.

A poem inspired by a paragraph in Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2023.