Jun 26, 2013

Jacaranda

The jacarandas look more beautiful on an overcast day.
As if anything could look more beautiful than it already is.

Their delicate but deep violet penetrates my heart.
I wish that I could take their flowers and melt them into a cloud
and float away with it on the white and dusty sky.

I would travel to a distant land of wild roses,
of no time.
I would lay under the bare sky and sleep under the stars,
honeydew dreams attracting moths around my young and curly head.

I'd wake up to the gentle rays of a gentle sun on a gentle morning.
Everywhere: quiet, but the dawn chorus.
Foraging for apples and berries, I would stop to consider the weeds under my feet
and their smiling purple, white, yellow faces looking up at me.

The wild horses would kick up dust in the distance behind me
as I'd approach the edge of a cliff opening up to a valley:
a river running away from a waterfall, a butterfly teasing a light speck.

I'd breathe in, and breathe out: I'm still here.

For the rest of time (this is it)

Breathe in and realise this is as good as it gets.

The honey-stained sheets,
the long embraces,
the kissing lips like copulating slugs
this is it.

You might fool yourself and think:
more sunny days will come,
I will enjoy another cool drink
under the shade of the loving oak tree,
gazing towards the swift-dotted sky.

You might say:
I will wake up to a pair of juicy thighs
and lay my eyes on the intense greens and blues
outside my window
tomorrow.
I will live again tomorrow, and for years to
come.

But sadly, this is untrue.

Or perhaps- happily, this is untrue,
for how lifeless would those long-drawn love-lorn
gazes
into each others' eyes seem,
how cheap would our youthful bodies wrapped
around each other be,
how valueless the colours
and the scents
and the feeling of cold, clear water running
painlessly down our elastic throats be,
if they were to exist again tomorrow,
and the day after tomorrow,
and for the rest of time.