It's Still Life

An Hour in April

19:20
in the conservatory,
we sit inside a bowl of blue.

moon halfway risen,
unhurried as breath.

Peder reads the future aloud,
electric, precise, kWh,
while my little Renault rests
with the memory of roads still warm.

outside,
apple trees hold the last birdsong
like a secret not yet spent.

and the clouds,

pink drawn sideways
as if the sky were a chalkboard,
someone leaning in,
pressing colour softly
against the darkening day.

nothing asks.
nothing hurries.

the night
arrives
by degrees.

20:03
pink chalk clouds,
dragged wide across blue,

and above them,
a straight white thought
from a passing airliner,

dividing nothing,
only moving through it.

we sit beneath,

moon half-risen,
apple trees holding their breath,
Peder still reads the future aloud

while the sky
allows every mark

and keeps
none of them.

20:18
lavender now.

the day dissolved
into its own remembering,

colour steeped
until even the shadows
fold back into themselves.

the chalk-marks fade,
pink, white,
nothing kept.

and on the fence,
a crow waits,

black as ink
not yet laid to page,

looking past me,
past the garden,
into some other
quiet arrangement of things.

I do not follow.

I sit,
and let the world
be wider than I can see.

There’s a stillness here; without ceremony. Just presence. A sense that not everything needs to be understood to be fully held.

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Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.