NIGHT WORLDS

The bushes rustle against the windows there and there is a sort of click-click-click on the panes. There is something about white panes, new or old, some soul infused aura. The moon, maybe a new moon, is not to be seen. The sky is opaque for the cloud cover. If there are spirits, they are not known, for all that can really be heard is the wind and therefore the wind is equated with, is, in fact the night. We could call it the ‘wind’ world. And the world spins, and there is not really a centre point. The old tree, the small one, what was it called? It had the most beautiful flowers, red and little spots of yellow inside. It’s unbelievable that its name is forgotten. Its heyday is over,- and maybe some nice eyes laid themselves upon it under the summer sun, the clear and deep and forever blue sky, the strange birds and the prosaic birds that flew about the place. Maybe. One can only hope. Now its leaves are frayed, and there are no flowers. The terra cotta container doesn’t look half as well as it did surrounded by impatience flowers red, white, purple, and so forth,- their stems proud and as if full of green water,- there tops bragging themselves up so wisely and adroitly and somehow succinctly and succulent to reach the morning star. Ah well, it all comes to pass as is said. Maybe that is in the Bible, - This too shall pass, - or maybe it is somewhere else. Does it really matter? Unfortunately the tree looks as if it has passed, or rather is about to buy the farm, give up the ghost. Maybe it will arrive in the astral realm and be a tree there. Nobody things about that. Their only thought about those things, if it comes, regards people. Well the branches…they make odd shapes on the pavement, - moving things from a peculiar and slightly disturbing play or song. They could be anything and anywhere, in any city or place in the world. Distinct under the light of streets, leaves playing in front of the lamplight,- to be interest at first, and then also indistinct enough to be unable to formulate a picture of anything in the mind’s eye. And the mind is uncomfortable with that. Not mine, - mine loves and adores the play of light in the night. This is poetry, this is music, and this is a certain art. This and the tap tap tap of old branches under the moon that ever so quickly peaked out is what the night worlds are made of and made for.

 

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