The Grey White Feather

The grey white feather glided down from unseen wings.

She looked at the page.

Glided?

Was that the word?

It didn’t seem to do justice to the elegant passage of the gentle whisper that floated down on wisps of air.

Glid?

The feather glid down?

That sounded ridiculous.

Yet she would write: The goose glided down and slid on the ice, surprised not to ski and skim over the lake’s surface, now frozen in the grip of winter.

Glided it was then.

If it was good enough for a garment of feathers on a goose, it was good enough for one feather, gliding down from unseen wings.

The golden watery sun shaded the garden. She sat shivering; waiting for the shadows to part and warm her in the weak rays of the winter sun.

Painted reds and hues flared and changed as the light lit their tinder. It would have reminded her of the setting sun, painting over the Grand Canyon; from orange to cherry, to crimson to cedar red and a darker mahogany before allowing the blanket of night to settle over the great gorge.

Had she ever seen the Grand Canyon, these colours in her garden, painted red by her own hand and shaded by the winter sun, would have reminded her of it.

Alas, she had never seen the Grand Canyon.

Nor Uluru, which also passes through the spectrum as the brush of sunrise sweeps softly overhead.

The garden greens stir, too, with winter shrubs huddling round the purple heathers, reminding her that life goes on,

Amongst the death, life goes on. And among the dead, the living must survive.

She puts down her pen, weary and drained.

She is calm and she will write more in a while. But for a moment, as the light warms her, now, gently, she remembers the dead. Her soft thoughts hang like dew, gently dripping. Or sliding down a wide leaf or stem. Like the tear trickling down her face.

The loss was unforeseen.

Unimaginable.

Yet thousands died.

Some were killed by those closest to them, who loved them to the end, yet could not hold them.

Places of sanctuary and care for the weak and old became traps. Pits of no escape. Places of medicine turned into morgues, where you dare not chance seeking help as the helpers themselves became killers, even as they died.

But this was 2020. There was no plague; no Black Death with bursting buboes and pus to carry the stench of death.

Yet, still it came.

From nowhere.

To everywhere.

She sighed and picked up her pen, sipping from her China cup and continued to write:

“The grey white feather glided down from unseen wings.”

Many believe that such feathers signify something

Hellena wasn’t sure.

Green

Fields

Full of nothing

But nostalgia.

Hills

Rolling

Round old stone walls

Under old grey skies.

Dotted sheep

And occasional cows

Stand

Or sleep

Unchanged by time

As an out of place steam Train

Rolls by

Still at home

In Yorkshire Fields.

Written on a steam train journey from Emsbay to Bolton Abbey.

On this , the 6th day of August, 2023

(Written outside a pub in Wales, on a sunny day.)

I'm sitting

In the sun

Glorious

With a cooling wind

And beer.

Sea behind me, lapping

As I sup.

They're mildly rowdy

Telling old tales

Of schoolyards

And best friends.

I don't mind.

They need the sun

And stories .

As the day fades

They return inside

And I watch them through the pane

Singing and hugging

As they say farewell

To the memory of a friend.

Tragedy and Happiness

Come in the same box

We get them both

There are no locks

To keep them trapped

Inside, alas.

All we can do when either comes

Is remember

All things pass.

People I've known are dead,

She said

"You're lucky to be alive".

Gone before their time,

She said.

So how did I survive?

Images floating round

My head

Spirits from my past.

Words and sounds and things

They said.

How did I outlast?

Gone but don't forget

The dead

Always on my mind.

Always in my heart

And head

Isn't that unkind?

Begone!

Just because something doesn't exist, it doesn't mean you shouldn't believe in it:

"Do Believe"

I do, I do

I do believe in fairies

And fairy glades

And fairy wings

And lots of other fairy things

I do, I do,

I do believe in fairies.

And Santa Claus,

Yes I believe,

Is magical

For who would leave

My presents round the Christmas Tree

But Father  Christmas

Just for me.

And leprechauns, enchanted elves,

I do believe are casting spells

And witches, wizards,

It's all true

I do believe

And so should you.

For what is life

Unmagical but something rather tragical,

So do believe in what I say.

Don't let the magic

Go away.

In November, 2021, I caught COVID-19.

I was ill for a month.

(One year earlier, on 25th December, 2020, the virus had taken my father.)

Midway through my illness, on 16th November, I ventured out to my doorstep to look at the world.

It was still there; still turning without me.

Unaware of my absence.

That prompted me to write:

“Thoughts in Isolation”

Is this what it's like?

Being dead?

The world carries on

Not missing a beat

Barely noticing.

I stand at my door

Observing.

Nobody notices I'm gone

After day one.

Of course, they carry on

As I have often done.

It's eerie

Standing here

Watching the world turn without me

And puts me in my place.

I hope I don't die

But if I do, it's comforting to know

It won't matter much.

Look at that cat!

The cat

Sat on the

Rug.

And hey! there's a bug

As snug as a bug on a

Mat.

And now there's a frog

And a dog

On a

Branch.

And a mouse and a louse

Living in a small

Hotel.

It's a funny old place

Without rhyme

Without reason

There's a duck in a truck

But I don't give a

Fig

About that.

Or that silly old cat

In his hat.

Such a

Twerp!

In my impossible imagination

I fall in love with you,

Though my outer self

Says we'll never meet.

My inner self

Knows that isn't true.

For we are love.

He's hunched over

Eating

In his khaki green  jacket

Tomatoes and toast

Scrambled egg,

In his jacket

He looks all intense.

Yet

Supping his tea

He leans back in his chair

Crosses his legs

Like he hasn't a care

Like an Oxford professor

Then, like a fabled confessor

His lips start to chatter,

I'm quite startled at first

Maybe, something's the matter

Then he's back to his toast

And tomatoes and eggs

His demeanour quite harsh,

He uncrosses his legs

And returns to his complicated breakfast.