Tag: nature

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Where am I when I dream?

I’m within a dark dreamscape.
Far away from
Any streetlights.

Beyond a rotting picket fence,
That seems to smile like
It is missing several teeth.

I sit, head in hands,
Beyond an unkempt garden
Of grass and brambles.

Behind thick vines
That grow and twist,
Sealing the entrance,
Where my mouth
Lies silent
And boarded shut.

My eyes,
Are cracked windows,
Painted shut with time
And stained with
Memories and detritus.

I am incarcerated,
For the term of my natural life,
Within this skull-shaped cell.

Propped up by hands,
Reinforced by rope,
Hope,
And rotting dreams.

Nursing
My aching bones,
And my scars
of grief,

That line the walls
Within dusty,
Broken frames.

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Call of the Currawong

You announce
Your own name,

My beautiful black
Feathered visitors.

Your loud,
Ringing,
Deeply resonant call
Echoes through
The country air,

Heralding your arrival.

The garden awakens
To your presence,

Trees and beds
Fill with flocking
Ebony energy.

However,

All other birdlife
Falls silent,

Either mesmerised
Or fearful
Of the sound,

“Curra-wong.”

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Back to her

Can the night become
Any darker?
The morning
Seem so distant?

My mind feels cold.
Closed.
Numb.
Intentionally distant.

Why do I feel
So locked inside?
As if this is
Who and what
I am now.

Some days seem
As though
There is no way out
Of this grinding,
Destructive,
Sickness-inducing
Life.

And then
Without warning,
I smell the eucalypts,
The touch of summer rain,
The warm sun on my face.
The call of songbirds.

The voice
Of my wife calling,
Me back to her.

And suddenly,
For a moment,
The night seems
A little less dark.

The morning
A little closer.

And it feels
Like I might just
Be okay.

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But when?

The morning feels
Impenetrable.

The night unsettled,
The day uncertain.

When will
The seasons change?

When will
These winter snows
Finally thaw?

When will
The flowers of spring
At last bloom,

Heralding an end
To this time
Of cold desolation?

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The Courtyard Garden

The courtyard garden
Of Nocturna
Lies hidden
At the heart of the club.

It is no ordinary courtyard.
There is no open sky.

Instead,
An immense glass ceiling
Spans the space above,
Filtering the moonlight
Into a soft
Silvery glow.

The night sky
Feels close enough
To touch,
Yet remains
Beyond the glass.

Ancient stone paths
Wind quietly
Between raised beds
Filled with rare herbs,
Curious flowers,
And exotic plants
Collected by club members
from distant lands.

Some bloom only
By moonlight.
Others perfume the air
With fragrances
Unknown beyond these walls.

Members wander slowly,
Teacup,
Book,
Or notebook in hand,
Finding quiet corners
In which to think,
Read,
Or simply listen
To the gentle movement
Of leaves
Beneath the moonlit glass.

It is said
That no plant
Within Nocturna’s garden
Has ever truly died.

Only waited patiently
For the right season
To bloom again.

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Ascalapha Odorata

Oh Black Witch Moth of the night,
With wings of mottled dark brown velvet,
Seeker of the northern sun.

I see you not as harbinger of death,
But as a noctuoid beauty in the moonlight
Your iridescent colours tease,
As you flutter and search the night,
Seeking the ripest forest fruits.

You are known by so many names,
Mariposa de la Muerte in South America.
The Mourning Moth in the Caribbean.
The Duppy Bat of Jamaica.

Indeed, if you are a lost soul dear lady,
you may find a home with me.

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Illness and imagination

It has been days
Since I dreamed.
Rest has become
Shallow,
My nights
Grey and distant.

A veil has fallen
Between myself
And the Dream Continent.

I miss
The sandy shores.
The emerald sea.
The distant mountains.
The cool streams
And quiet ponds
Among the wildflower fields.
Even the forest Devourers
Have fallen silent.

The ghosts,
Have wandered elsewhere.
Darkness itself
Keeps its distance.

There are no cranes.
No serpents.
Only a dull grey silence.
An empty feeling
Of abandonment.

I long to walk
Those familiar paths.
To breathe
The scented air.
To feel
The ocean spray.

Yet the veil remains.
And I cannot pass.
What strange magic
Has found me?

What cloud
Has settled over my mind,
Hiding
The Ocean of Dreams?

My body fights
To remain awake.
Sleep now brings
Only colourless thoughts.

Perhaps,
As I have learned before,
The only way beyond
Is through.
So I continue
My quiet journey,

Trusting that somewhere
Beyond this veil,
The world of dreams
Still waits,
Patiently,
For my return.

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The Pond of Thought

The Thought Pond’s waters lie tranquil.
Its serene surface ripples
As large blue and yellow dream-fish
Kiss the water’s surface.

Golden sunlight dances across the pond
With a soft and lustrous glow.

At the water’s edge,
A dreamer sits.
They feel the warmth
Of the Dream Continent,
Gentle and embracing.

Content,
They empty the burdens of the day.
Thoughts pour from their mind
Into the pond below,
Filling it to the brim.
And the dream-fish feed.

Thought Ponds such as this
Appear when they are needed,
Offering dreamers a place
To sit quietly,
And release their troubles.

When their mind is clear,
The journey continues,
Through the wildflower fields,
Across the dunes,
Past the lighthouse
Upon the peninsula,
Into the Ocean of Dreams,

And beyond,
To waking.

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Valley of the Wildflowers

Fresh waters flow
From mountains high
To the valley below.

The winding Peace River
Threads through the valleys,
Through wildflower fields,
To the mouth
Of the Ocean of Dreams.

The wildflower meadows
Hold scents bold and beautiful.

Here the dreamer breathes
Freely and peacefully,
Surrounded by whatever fragrance
Their heart most desires.

By day beneath bright sunlight,
Vibrant colours bloom across petals,
Swaying gently in the sweet breeze.

At night beneath moonlight,
They shine just as brightly,
Glowing with unearthly brilliance.

Glistening mother-of-pearl stones,
White as starlight,
Rest within soft green paths
That wander through the fields,
From ocean shore
To mountain foot.

It is a place where the dreamer is content,
Grounded and whole.

Untouchable.
Unreachable.

Until they are ready
To journey home.

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