Duly in July

Random Acts of Would-Be Randomness

Admiring the brightly coloured

                                                            randomness

                                    in others,

            the blackbird warbling from the dense knot of thorn,

I see only sharp connections

amongst my drab flora, hypodermics, broken glass,

            surreptitiously spreading links of barbed wire

                                                to be tripped up over

again and for never, ever

            amen-onwards, until the cupboard is bare.

I am unable to expect the unexpected

because it isn’t yet baked,

            always is furniture,

                        might sometimes be vagrant.

It is shaped by patterns, you see,

            visual, audible,

                        the melody, brush stroke, latent sleeping rhythm

            snuggling away down there, together,

waiting to hatch.

                        A clutch of drawn shadows

echoing the ignition

                        of blackbird wings

in a slowly lost forest.

It’s how it sits close to the bone,

                                                            colours shining

                        Do you see me?

                                    Can you hear my colours?

                                                                         J.S.Watts

                                                                          (first published in Clockwise Cat)

Where there is a space for words
words do not always flow
because they are not enough
or too much.
It is not always clear which.
Sometimes the ignition of wings,
their in-built colours flaring,
are space enough.