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Poem

what a calm sea hides

into the deepest indigo
air airwaves have settled
all that remains is a fringe of tide

the tree holds, forever

on the eighteenth day
of every second month 
an invitation arrives.

not encased in a stiff
white crinkling envelope
made from the death of a tree

it is from the tree, 
a passing zephyr 
of whisper-breath

the merest of rustles
“come, there is space for you
we will talk”

welcome steps out,
moods follow at a distance
they never try to enter, it is futile
clouds of different greys tumble backward 

coming home to a favourite place
heaven of the heart
veils slip away not needed here
shields of gauze left piled out side

there is an inside and an outside
there is no clinical, mechanical,
buzz-beep speak

altering through the air 
see bespectacled dissect, 
creeping through mouldering pages 
looking for similarities, wrung out theories 
and queries from long ago

sit and be quiet and so I do
for an hour on the dot, finis
I do not see me. 
among all of these descriptions
these wise whizz-bangers, 
bon mot until next time
I reach over to shake the proffered 
sepulchral cartoon undertakers hand. 

you will not find them here
blown up and blown away
by their own hot air.
I see you as you are gremlin minds.

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