Misty Rememberings [prompt]

Early morning mist covers the lawns
as the sun comes up – blue skies
a bright day is promised.
The earth is scorched – it has been
warm, too warm and the grass
is brittle and crisp, brown now.
signs of the past
have been revealed
the earth peeling back, revealing
what is past
a garden once there,
foundations of a building that once
stood – long gone.
the heat reveals it all
strips back to the past
to what has been buried and forgotten –
it now lies on the surface
ready to be discovered.

II
It was a formal garden once
laid out and cared for by a team of gardeners
now it is just grass, the secrets
of the past have been long covered up
there is nothing to show –
but the past remains
to haunt them, long after it’s gone.

an old walkway long covered by water
stripped back to walk across again
a village buried and forgotten
now emerging from the water.
lost foundations and runways
echoes of buildings once there.

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The Butterfly

The butterfly’s wings beat gentle
as it settles brown wings
onto the flowers I carry.
It stays as I walk
down the twisting pathway
towards you. It flutters
away before we get there
but through it, I feel you with me.

You are there again on a Cornish hillside
in late January sunshine
unexpected, but beating your brown
wings, sunbathing in the rays
you dance around us, to let us know
that you are there with us
before vanishing into the hedgerow.

I see you again closer to home
on a scorching summer’s day
you fly in to check up on us
lazily circling around
in the heat and I watch
you rise and dive
among the bright flowers
that still thrive
despite the fierce, blazing sun
and the wily hands of time and neglect.

Perfect Day

I remembered that day today
floating in the ocean with you
as if we were in the Med
everything looked new
it was the perfect day
the sea was glassy
the sand burning underfoot
the sun in the sky
beating down and everything was still.
we ate fish and chips
on the seafront, my wet hair
drip
drip
ing
down my back
as the sun went down
and the heat of the day was gone
the sweet glow that we felt
began to trickle away
as if it had all been a dream.

THE PILGRIM

He holds a rucksack in one hand
as if it’s an inconvenience,
something he wishes to be rid of.
He leans against a wall,
just another visitor, another passer through.
His footsteps don’t linger there
no imprint is made
to say that he was there.
He is just passing through –
another wanderer,
searching for something.

PILGRIMS

They returned to the site,
still the same after all these years.
No one else would know they were pilgrims
for they wore tatty shorts and t-shirts, clutched
backpacks and sun hats,
and looked like any other tourist
that passed through. But for them
it was something else – this pilgrimage
that they had made, back, into the past,
a time that had long passed
even if the place still remained
seemingly untouched.

Return

I stand in the entrance

to the Tate Modern;

my heart is beating like a drum

and I cannot move.

But the world did not end

nor did the heavens open

as I had thought. You are still

not here and I am still alone

alone as I was five minutes

earlier when I entered the building.

The world keeps on turning

just as I keep on breathing

and you keep on not being here

any more.

I Was Here

 

To be the first to walk across the golden

sand in the morning, to leave a footprint

pressed into the sand like a memo

I was here

as the sun beams down

and the quiet, golden silence

of the morning is a secret held

by me alone, imprinted on my mind,

my shoes dangling at my side

sand clinging to my wet feet,

and I wish, that I was there again.