Commonword Blogs

White paws patter an April morning sky
Garden furniture sinks into sappy peat.
Half of my face cool, the other tinged heat.
The cat nudges my arm; I yawn then sigh.

It’s my last day. I’ll never see the tall telephone cables, from the corner of my eye,
where they join up, black, look like crows; waiting.
Or the
Pink, blue and yellow futon’s, hanging over balconies,
blowing in the wind, from the holler of petrol station attendants,
Who make rainbows on windscreens with their elbows, egging cars, in and out.

I’ll never smell yaki niku, as it smoulders on charcoal:
Amy, splatting me with the fat.
Or
Taste the gumminess of mochi, melting all corners of my mouth:
It’s red centre, like lava.

River rises, butterflies snuggle in her banks,
sparrows settle by the sunflowers, scorched.

A dragonfly nips the water, the wind combs
the rice fields, yellow and green.

River is idle, scabby rubbish clings to her banks;
She scorns the sun.

River rushes, heavy clouds drown her,
She soars, like sirens.

River sleeps, ripples reduce moon to small man,
He trembles.

Four girls’ - side by side, cycling:
Swapping stories from their day

Baskets brimmed with books and bags.

An April breeze brushes their cheeks;
ruffles their navy skirts’

Dipping down ditches, dirt, dashing socks.

Laughter lifts them up from their saddles; shoes scuff
at stop signs, jutting corners, stones ping against
spokes.

Silence, as they approach home

The droning of bicycle lamps, drowned by dead pedals.

Dawdling to their doors, heaving holdalls.

They say goodnight, stepping inside their houses:
Hoping to sleep, parents pester.

We took the same route every Sunday. My Gran had to drag Bazil out of the front door, he was so fat. The hill we climbed seemed so far away from the cosiness of my Gran’s front room. The wind often gushed it’s way through your jumper, duffle coat and into your bones, leaving your teeth chattering and lips blue.

My dad’s leather shoes
Old, dormant, resting under the kitchen table
Curled up at the toe, beaten in at the back
Crispy insoles, like sandpaper, grit from the garden
And odour of turps, and beer slurped
Speckles of white paint dot the tongue
Inky blue, now a gauntly grey
Nuzzled by the dog
Sometimes, he forgets where he kicked them off!

I study the screen
searching your eyes
are they green like mine?

Green like the river
whose ripples relieve a wrought mind

Green like the rice fields
where strands upon strands of green
soften the seized landscape.

Green like conifers that twist and twirl
rows and rows of thick coarse hair

Green like ivy, which conquers walls
leaving windows looking out

Green like roadside trees, who hammer the
roofs of rush-hour traffic - after the rain
followed by teeming tears.

Green like cabbages, patches of green
nourishing the ground

Is he green like me?

A swallow plays with it’s shadow, reflecting in the river’s afternoon haze.

The popping of tennis balls’ on a soft clay court.

A tannoy from the school, rises over rooftops, and into backyards
where children play.

An old man stubbles, his white steel cane, scrapes and jolts along the river’s
stony path.

Children squat by the water; dad helps them to cast their reels
Farmers’ burn their grass, the heavy smoke smart’s my eyes.

To sit, be still

I think of your reassuring smile, your raucous laughter, your attentive ear

I want to go home.

Circling and turning above my head, the swallow plays with it’s
shadow, reflecting in the river’s afternoon haze.

To my left, the popping of tennis balls, on a soft clay court,
children’s laughter; rises over rooftops and into backyards.

To my right, an old man and his white steel cane; scrape and jolt
along the river’s stony path.

Two children kneel by the water, they wait and squabble.

Farmers’ burn their grass, the heavy smoke smarts my eyes

I take a sigh and try to forget the hour.

By Belinda Johnston

You call me, see the heron walk across the street,
plunging into the long green straggly weeds: Missing his lunch.

You call me, the terrapin peers out the pond: Doggy paddles and
touches a twig.

You call me, look up, two house-martins’ swoop under a canopy;
as one comes in, the other goes out: “Busy birds” you say.

You call me, count the carp
slapping against one another, for snippets of food
Their mouths make tunnels of O’s.

Whispering, you call me, pointing out the dragonfly; disguised
on a water lily: Skimming over the pond, settling on a stone.