Feeling clumsy and mute.
Sitting in a quiet room.
The computer hums, waiting.
Chattering doubts
rattle out of my keyboard.
The screen responds.
I am pinned by the cursor
to the edge of the white void.
-
Outside the sky is grey and backlit.
There are trees, dark leaves of prunus,
seedlings reclaiming the lawn, bottlebrush and eucalypt.
The willow in the creek bed is persistently green.
The grass is tawny and full of seeds.
The garden is seeding too, spinach, onion, parsley,
tall and dry, falling about, restarting the cycle.
They all compete to fill the air with futures options.
Nature's mass mailout addressed to spring.
A magpie does a stocktake of the verge.
-
Some kind of temporal vertigo.
No commuting rhythm, no voice.
No metered clutter and fuss of a working day.
Wide expanses of silence and opportunity.
Breathing.
-
Gentle afternoon
Soft light, timeless without shadows.
Cool enough to make soup.
Washing clothes.
The dogs stalk the long grass like sandy tigers.
Some kind of peaceful.
-
Still space and safety.
Stepping carefully.
Connecting one word at a time.
Pushing the doubts into line.
-
Visitors.
The dogs shake out a welcome
for the familiar car sound.
Voices and the thud of feet on the floorboards.
Laughter and garlic fill the air.
Feeling the sound and bustle retreat.
Strapping the tower to the roof racks
and driving off.
The waves of sound have pulled back from the shore.
I'm waiting for the push and crash of the next cycle.
-
The computer hums, waiting,
sitting in a quiet room.