23 January 2012
Clouds – Hannah Walker
Clouds by Hannah Walker (17)
Pistachio green cardigans invite seated contemplation.
Spread out on the grass,
the colours clashing like infant siblings.
Sitting down gently,
the cold of the ground
seeps up through my clothes.
so that arms and body
form a triangle
with the ground.
Leaning, until I’m lying flat on my back.
Like a starfish,
or someone who thinks snow angels are possible
even in the middle of summer.
The cardigan doesn’t cover all the ground;
grass tickles the soft insides of knees.
The weight of me connects with the ground.
It’s a cold, reassuring presence,
firm against the small of my back.
The air is warm and moist.
A humid wind has risen up in the last few hours.
It flies about,
caressing the oaks’ weary fingers.
An acorn plops to the ground.
Warm humid wind and soft curling hair,
brushes against pale cheeks.
Some considerate city planner from eons passed
placed the trees
Far enough apart so as to allow
sky to slice through
ever moving leaves,
but not so far that the world feels naked and barren
without its arboreal shield.
The seasons have finally made up their minds;
lush greens of a long wet summer
slowly reveal their bloodied copper edges.
In a month or so
leaves will lose their grip on branches
delicate in death,
to the ground.
The sky is magnificently blue.
Some forgotten deity
has spilled all their soap suds over the expanse.
They stagger across the stage.
tiny and insignificant,
I watch with the trees.
All are watching the clouds
as they crawl,
over the edge of the world.
Others skip through the sky,
like newly blossoming children.
They play like young cattle dogs,
behind the branches of trees
and back again.
Constantly hiding, teasing and emerging.
They scuttle around
alighting from a morning train to Wynyard.
The clouds scamper about,
hurrying through the heavens,
completely unaware of their earthly audience.
we sit and ponder the clouds.