A Spiral Recollection

As I round the corner

a man and his tiny daughter

are standing beneath a tree,

eyes on the ground.

"They're called helicopter seeds,"

still uncertain on her feet,

she reaches down and grabs one

and throws it into the air.

She giggles and he smiles

as the small seed twirls

to the ground, to rest

and then I'm past them.

There was a sycamore tree

in my neighbour's garden

and the helicopter seeds would fall

onto the path of the house I grew up in.

I'd grab handfuls

and float them

into the village stream

and watch them wash away.

As the delight fades

behind me,

I am alone again

and grab a copter of my own.

I carry it down to the river railing

of the big new city and look out

across the churning water,

until watchers move on.

I let the seed fall

and follow it for the time

its beautiful shape allows,

before it cuts through the surface

and I continue on.

Comments

Am I glad you turned on the light?

I just saw the cord of my blind swinging and was surprised by the strange shapes of its shadow; the differing of an object and its shadow felt like original thinking, until I remembered the cave of an old chap called Plato. Other languages probably have a word for when you felt so mindful but were beaten to the idea by more than 2000 years, when out of the obscured, spins a thought, so graceful, until new light means the shadow disappears.

Wandering Melody

"Oh, what a wonderful melody!" It was such a joyful exclamation, said with her whole body. She was pacing around and wondering where it came from, while the tune spiralled round her. "It sounds like something I'd write... but better." Allowing herself the creator, she let it play out, filling in harmony. Trying a response to the muse's call, she explored a new melody to answer the first. Not quite right, she realised. "Take a step back, try again." But she couldn't turn around. The response had subsumed its question. Leaving her doused in ice, the melody was gone.

this is not my memory

My friend was talking about a painting by Magritte, of a pipe that is not a pipe. Straight into my head, with calm fidelity, I saw an image of a pipe, floating in space - the sort of pipe water flows through, with a right-angled bend in its shiny metal. I looked up the painting, to be sure, and I'd got the wrong sort of pipe all together. It was not a pipe, but a pipe . Hmm... Maybe I was thinking of the cover of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells? Out comes the phone again. Closer! The background is as I imagined and the material is similar, but still no pipe. Unsurprisingly, this floating monolith is a triangular tubular bell. So where did I see the pipe? If I did see the pipe. Which is of course not a pipe (of any sort) anyway...

Expressive Explorations

Search This Blog