A thin green stalk, rigid despite its size,
holds a few dozen purple flower heads.
The colours so crisp and the dimensions so exact,
it’s hard to believe something this perfect was born in the soil.
Now it lives in a small glass jar,
painted with snowflakes,
with a faint scent of ginger on its smooth walls.
The creek sings softly,
as the water slides over moss covered rocks,
in its neverending journey to the sea.
Boats bob slightly in the harbour,
and seagulls glide aimlessly over their sails.
Beyond, there is just blue,
for miles, until the sea touches the sky.
Under the red beams of the bridge,
lie a smattering of boats,
their rounded sails filled with wind,
and their decks filled with little people.
Closer to shore, a couple of mother ducks keep a watchful eye on the sky,
as their children try out their new waterproof feathers,
bobbing like corks on the ripples.
You wake up to cold air on your face,
but that’s ok. You’re wrapped up warm.
You look out the window and see sheets of rain falling,
but that’s ok. There’s plenty of fun things to do inside.
You scramble in your cupboard for the chunky jumper you put away in March,
but that’s ok. It reminds you of Christmas.
It’s raining today. But that’s ok.
Green fields and dirt tracks
give way to thatched roofs and steep roads.
Halfway up the hill,
there is a little church,
filled with old slabs of stone,
whose inscriptions have been worn away by time,
and replaced with flowers of lichen.
On the moon the days are long,
and the nights are cold.
Whales swim through thin air,
and Martians throw rocks as they drive by.
The craters are littered with junk,
which the old man rakes through,
looking for reminders of home.
The water is sterile, I can’t smell anything,
and the ocean floor is too close to me.
I can’t dive, I can’t find my pod,
I can’t find any other creatures,
besides the ones with fake skins.
They feed me dead fish and make cooing noises at me,
I don’t think they understand.
I look up at the clear blue sky of a summer afternoon,
and think “I belong up there.”
I belong with the birds and the clouds,
in a place where the only goal is to survive.
Sometimes, when I look at the sky,
I imagine the dull, throbbing pain of want,
giving way to glossy black wings erupting from my back,
then I could fly away, beyond the stars.
The sea is a churning mass of slate,
with white wave tips smashing into each other,
under a dull, colourless sky.
The wind rolling off the water is cold,
with specks of saltwater corroding iron railings and car bonnets.
But in a far flung corner of the sky, sunbeams struggle through the clouds,
because grey skies always give way to blue ones.
Puffs of smoke try to escape the wide brim of his Stetson,
curling in the still heavy air.
They form spirals and coils,
writing messages in a strange alphabet.
I try to form pictures from the tendrils,
desperate for any glimpse of a future I seem to have no control over,
but all I see are white horses galloping across an endless blue expanse.