symmetrical lines, tell-tale scars—
nothing elaborate but,
a sad past unable to be forgotten—
the creases betray, and memories return.
end of February. things are not always as they seem. purse lips—squally winds blast across
the lower meadow, paper daisies of vivid yellow, crimson and baby-blue hues bow over. it
makes for a delightfully ticklish moment. I cross paths with a fellow traveler—
he tips his hat, and I discover he has company. the sound of one thousand tiny wings
flapping is so loud I hear nothing—a charm of finches flies out of his hair. startled. I’m not
used to seeing others in this unreal space, even though I’m never alone with lost love fallen
off the tree rotting in cloud hill’s fertile earth.
the sky churns low over cloud hill, with giant swirling matter smudged grey breaking into the
soft, undulating white clouds. I walk across a small wooden bridge, sleepers sway underfoot,
behind me, the drowsy distant hum of traffic competes with the cracking of gum nuts—
the cockatoos have returned inland from their coastal sojourn—crunching, crushing, acting
out their lives, never stopping for a dropped gum nut, always forwards, never haunted.
lemon-scented, peppermint, weeping silver pear
and a bench waiting for me. hidden behind the crooked-back trail is my little cottage snug,
safe in bowerbird undergrowth.
months become years and into a life of its own thriving alongside me
I sit on the bench wandering cloud hill with you.
Written by. Jo
Painting by. Claude Monet
Jo is an emerging short story writer and poet. She is currently studying creative writing. In between reading and writing she likes cloud watching and floating.
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