Author: Solsort

Orange peach mist lingers over the water

as the rising sun bleaches unbearable whiteness

into the blue, into the contrails of the

international traveller, the training airmen,

attracting the parallel lines – a fire magnet –

even as earth inches its way outwards, warming

and cooling, defying the earth child’s newly acquired

need to predict, to model and to compute.

Defying with peachy, fuzzy-warm facts in space loads,

overloads; the thumbprints of god multiplying

like Mandelbrot minnows in the shallow orange river

as the earth child is drawn, lured: onward, outward, inward;

discovering itself, like light: either, or and both.

Rivers of inspiration

shimmy across the canvas

of that illusive cranny, cleft,

cataract, flume; where

some images linger, some

disappear before I can grasp

gone, on the edge of being;

of rushing

refractions into distance.

Some leave their imprint;

some leave reflections of being

or not being. Some exist only

as memories, flowing, flooding,

wide and tranquil, urgent,

or fictional. Facts of water

constantly disappearing.

Expected, anticipated,

vital

Sun glistening on glass sprinkled with tiny seed pearls and white on terracotta roof tiles, prompt

something disturbing in the vault of memory resting in semi awareness on a sleepy Sunday.

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The restless vault of treasure, suspended like the fine rain in warm summer air, seeps from the comfort of joyful to a vague quickening of pulse, a bitter-sweet tightness of skyfall, the knowing.

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The knowing that moving on is every bit as shocking as it ever was, that pearls will forever hang in the air, pause momentarily on glass, on uncovered hair and slide down naked faces.

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And sun will catch them, glisten and sparkle through them, sleepy Sundays will overflow with them, laden with brazen memories never content to move from spotlight to shadowed vault of treasures.

On the waterfront in Old Town, Virginia,

the Torpedo Factory sits redundant

as a storehouse of weapons; behind it on the

river run Washington Monuments tours

from Alexandria dock, but under the skin

Torpedo Factory now shines as Arts Centre:

peacetime home to Fibre Art and Printmakers, Inc.

As a tourist in Washington, I did the river;

Monuments tours, Kennedy Centre, Air’n’Space,

but lingered in Torpedo Factory, long;

long before it got quite so smart, so organized;

lingered and was invited to guest the space.

Long before it got quite so smart and organized.

Left a little bit of me in the art space;

left my reflection dancing in the water.

Left a glimpse into an unseen future

on the boardwalk, along the Potomac river.

Reaching for the moon

was never the same

after I’d touched it.

Reaching out, placing

my fingers on the

smooth, worn surface was

a defining moment.

And this knowledge has sustained me

through all those times when the moon and stars

no longer shine. When, disempowered, earth

has been trapped in our capitalist hate crime.

The space capsule, looking homemade

with little toggles just like my dolls’ house,

survived fire on re-entry. Earth waits its moment.

There is a window,

window to the future

of this blue dot; the moon,

I discovered in Air’n’Space,

like the Blarney Stone,

rewards all who touch it.

The river on rainy days

shivers a pock-marked snakeskin

surface, swirling lazily

through a pointillist landscape

while the willow weeps raindrops

on chattering sparrows; cool

showering in foliage

wet rooms with the bigger birds;

safe from overhead falcons.

The disinterested gaze

of watching meadow cattle

still steaming from their bold charge;

the heavy brigade, at odds

with the silent bovine joy,

with the less than streamlined form

now sinking its cloven claws

into the lush green pasture;

at odds with the brown-cow eyes

shining with life and a living truth.

Split apart, with dry-cracked fissures and

ridges stretching wide before my eyes,

the bed both lured and challenged under

a burning sky. I walked, I struggled.

Madam, can you hear it? Can you hear

water? Listen. It has been raining;

the Zambezi comes, its on its way.

Winston was skilfully changing the

distance between us with dignity,

and a careful humour that put my own

clumsy offers of friendship to shame.

We laughed like small children delighting

in danger, reassured by silence.

On the far side of this dry bed

Livingstone Island: destination,

goal, sat perched on the edge

of the Smoke That Thunders,

Zambezi water continued to

roar wild over the falls; tumbling down

through the rainbows and billowing mist.

The Island beckoned, a green oasis

and not yet surrounded by water.

We crossed the Eastern Cateract on foot.

Tadeo Ando’s concrete lines

hide; slide into the landscaped green

pointed to by the faux river.

Light and stone adorn its shallow

bed as it runs, downhill, Midtown,

from cars and traffic-signals down

to green and trees, designer leaves

and grasses; curves away, a smile,

in the landscape that is hiding

and revealing critical lines.

Lines that swoop or soar, depending

on my mood; concrete that sits, not

awaiting or rejecting, but

showing off intriguing content

to anyone bold enough to

activate its sliding glass and

dip down into its dark and light;

where the heart is satisfied by

the at once new and déjà-vu,

acknowledgment of forgotten,

yet unknown future, balanced, a

seesaw on the tip of my tongue.