Those Days – Jonathan O’Farrell

Her attention wandered from the raised dais, momentarily.

‘So what, give me this moment, life is precious’.

He had come up, a little chilled,

but otherwise mostly un-nibbled by scaly denizens, of the deep drowned land;

and now found himself, sat next to her

back seats, the theatre of life.

During a brief interlude they slipped out,

Perfection, just long enough, out of whatever character currently portrayed.

Stood, still dripping a bit, at the bar she had previously raised

he held not the next shows’ programme, nor blueprint, or deed of ownership.

None, but a mug of steaming cocoa,

cradled, supported by bones

and simple, vulnerable flesh,

but that now warmed and alive.

And at sometime he pulled out an imaginary blank sheet of paper,

kept carefully dry

and unwrapped that idea, from within a fold in his soul.

Thus, the interval minutes turned to hours.

Hours of maybe sitting in the sun, basking in wordless skies.

Or little trips out to look and listen to the land, breathe, a tale or two, of two.

Seemingly, the sun moved

into the awaiting skin of that land.

Apparently it always does that.

Undistracted, during a firefly inspired, yet otherwise unscheduled meditation

he and she must have noted, that,

‘Oh, night – where did that evening go?’

No answer that time, to give,

other than ‘night, sleep well – perfection’.

As a result to this easy sum of planetary rotation

who knows what they plotted

and scrapped happily in a hungry waste basket,

ready, as ever, to receive

the scrunched up brown paper, a new world of map making.

There may have transpired crumbs of toast in a bed, or beds,

a copious number of kettles boiled,

little rocks rearranged, card games.

Wildly predictive texts read with mirth, at their late

and multiple arrival, like buses.

Car washed, paint brushes rinsed.

At times, horrors – a gaggle of unwashed coffee cups,

negotiated  by poised but gently flicking tails.

We can deduce very little my students of life

from what remains;

other than to say, games and fun played a very large part

in these lives.

Hello Miss Dreamer, at the back, yes, ha hum!

Perhaps it may have been inscribed in a journal

by one or other of them at the time,

in those uncounted days.

But the bee waxed birch bark tube

may not have survived well the consequent flood.

So we cannot know, for sure,

but we can piece together a few possibilities and imagine . . .

to our hearts content, the rest . . .

of what their bodies reveal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Aurora Phoenix

I write as Aurora Phoenix. Nine months ago my world shattered. Unexpectedly and dramatically arrested, I have been incarcerated ever since, as I await the unbearably slow machinations of the system. Devoid of verbal communication that is unmonitored, pen and paper have served as my truest outlet for grief, fear and angst. Armed with toilet paper for intermittently copious tears, my motions experience and reflections are PaperMate poured. In this chapter of my life, I write.

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