Thursday, 13 November 2014

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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