Sitting at the edge

Sitting at the edge of something, something different each day, the many miles walked to arrive at the fade of light’s dwindle across an hour of moments, sitting here at the fringe, feeding upon what came picked today, resting for this the last, and first hour, unkempt by strict time.

To find fathoms beneath the painting by the rain, a fresh scent of eucalypt, waking to the daze, where the tall leaves wait for time, to be spilling water again beneath a blue sunshine.

Here, the many bodies of serpentine waters, and they number quite a few, they wait patient for flood waters, to bear them their journey, the many miles across turning country, to find the colours, a Coral Sea.

For sure… My head’s all over the place at the moment, riding a flatbed out at sea, some how waiting to touch the guerrilla winds deep inside a forest, where such places be free of knots, blazes, and shields, but for those which be natural to touch.

Write away...

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