A Painted Sky




Sky the colour of wet slate, clouds like smudged chalk, up to the demarcation of a double rainbow.
Beyond this: perfect edged white, cyanine stillness.

Other words, immaterial: other frescos, outshone.
Nature flummoxes with a magnitude we can only faintly sketch.
I attempt to describe a feeling of symbiotic absorption. Cross out notes, words are too clumsy. Allude to a space behind words, a silent resonance.

Rain gathers, confers; at the right density, it drops.  



Comments

  1. Geo.5 November 2012 at 01:37

    Now you've got me wondering if there's a saturation point to the soul. Thanks for one of the finest pieces of writing I ever saw.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Lisa Southard5 November 2012 at 21:48

    A saturation point for the soul? That is something to think on, Geo! I'm inclined to say yes, I feel like this might be true. And thank you for a fine comment :-)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Friko11 November 2016 at 19:58

    Come and paint my Shropshire/Welsh border sky; your palette need only contain shades of grey. Perhaps you can make a grey poem from it?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Lisa Southard12 November 2016 at 09:20

      Hello Friko :-) Grey is a much underestimated colour. Today my little Cornish world is sunk in mist, it's beautiful! x

      Delete

Post a comment

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here:

Popular posts from this blog

Three Letters To Grace

Image
Words On Love, Loss, And Grieving



21/5/2020 Dear Grace,
I have said how your legacy is the small kind things; I have been noticing them more and more. It’s almost ridiculous, in a wonderful way, to be so taken by the pattern on a plate or how clever elastic is. I can’t stop making beautiful meals. Yesterday I woke up with the bravado to debone a turkey leg. It took awhile; regret was made fleeting by success. I feel like you know. That your light and care are here in everything and that’s why I am continually tuning in. The energy to transform everything is part of this, to celebrate our ordinary splendour. This has manifested into some minor furniture renovations and uncovered a leaking pipe under the bath. (I think we can fix it, I’ve put a cloth down for now to soak it up, left it open to dry out the floor and the rotted skirting board. The bath panel is outside meanwhile… should I paint it? Probably not…)
This is the best of grief; the deep and peaceful loss, the fine example, your …
Read more

Corona Creep Up

Image
Words From The Start Of Lockdown Life


Saturday March 14th 2020
On the drive to work I got bored of changing the windscreen wiper settings, then a little off-white spider raced around on the steering wheel. I blew it onto the dashboard but it jumped back. Cheeky spider. At work we are bored of coronavirus restrictions and bored at the prospect of it continuing. We don’t know anyone who has it. Supermarket shelves are missing toilet roll, dried pasta, as previously, now also tins of beans and tomatoes. There are travel bans and cancelled events. Last night I had to teach a non contact TKD session - no pads, no sparring, no hand shaking. I began my class with ‘first of all, please don’t breathe because that’s dangerous now.’ All of us are ‘meh’ about these restrictions. We understand that infection control is serious for the immune-compromised, we adhere to protocol for that reason. But the paranoia and boredom: meh. Monday March 16 2020 Yesterday Mr and I did some babysitting for Grandch…
Read more

A Rainbow Strikes

Image
June is rolling by, awash, so everyone has forgotten that it's summer now.  This morning I peered into the vegetable plots, into the swaying minarets of onion buds, the splay of cabbage seed pods, not sure if the raspberries were the summer or the autumn kind.  Lovage flowers, tiny spray on tall stems; lavender in bud: summer. Wild strawberries and rose petals in the dehydrator and the windows open to better hear the thunder: summer. After an evening swim one must wrap up: always. 
I am busy writing a story that seems to be running in rings about me, I am busy wild swimming to clear my head; working to pay the bills, reading up on rural planning law to wrestle reality from a dream. Picking the roses, the strawberries, the onion flowers. Tending the cabbage bed.  Standing still when I remember: see the swallows swoop by. Or floating, bobbing up toes, while each rain drop ripples out. Or that stop on the beach, while I am looking ridiculous with a towel on my head; two lumpy layered jumpers…
Read more