the watcher

I am not quite become

a twitcher of curtains

that favourite sport of ladies

alone and lonely

preying on the small excitements

of others

from behind

slyly lifted net curtains

I do not twitch

but boldly stand and stare

at the unfolding story

of my valley

high I live

perched on the side of the hill

too many steps

leaving my tobacco besmirched lungs

breathless at the ascent

yet more to climb

to reach the place of looking

to seek and know

perhaps become without care

the lazy glide of heron

wings spread, riding the air

homeward bound

I know the hiding place

of gold

the sacred secret

of where the rainbow ends

perhaps in youth

I might have gasped

donned walking boots

and stretched my legs

to stand within the myriad light reflecting

motes of magic

wiser now

my eyes have learned to watch

and hold within

the short lived endurance

of nature and her dancing light

no gold to grasp with greedy hands

but a moment in time

made beautiful

by the relentless march of days

expended in the living

Copyright © 2014 by Eryll Oellermann

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