Reminders of things magical
My painting began as a way to survive; I made my own reality, turning the ordinary into something special with the idea that magic could still save us.
I see the window ledge still dripping with yesterday’s showers.
And, I see the vehicle parked, where a taxi once sat, waiting.
And, I hear the door opening, my spirit jump
to the sound of a voice, the words we all dream
of hearing, the indelible reward of non-performance.
How one now listens for the faintest echo.
How one hopes for the touch of things remembered,
yet never contained.
' There were just a few miles left to go; you could see the rocks of the northern most point of the island coming out of the sea, the sun already two thirds of its way through the day. You were suddenly reminded of who you still were, the experiences of time albeit just an older version with youth attached, your feet stumbling through the grass, stepping from bog to stone, up a rise to the top of the hill, the waves crashing in the distance, the colors and light along the horizon and the clutter of life momentarily stripped away, the distance, between yesterday and the future, between what we have loved and what has loved us back suddenly clear and tangible.
And, perhaps little has changed as you get closer, the feeling they could be there waiting, the tricks our mind forever plays. And, for some moments you even watch for a sign, a name spoken, a familiar sound, across the hills to the sea, towards the light, to somewhere you have always known, to sensations never forgotten.
But there is nothing 'cept for the memory, as if still yesterday but buried forever by the pitiless tides of time.'
