Blackened Barn roasting in hot sunshine, hundreds of years, it can't share its stories the laughter and the tears, beautiful wood colours, burned to black, no reason to stand tall, no purpose any more... the old black buildings lean, falling slowly, rotting wooden foundations crumble to dust any nails that may be found turn slowly into rust. still something there appeals to us. hope that things went well, sometimes, there might be stories but no-one's left to tell.
Immobile red berries cannot speak you say? they tell a story anyways. no wind whistles through the trees. a hot sun brought us to our knees. but that was then and this we know. these bright red berries seem to glow. nights are cool and will be cold, soon snow will cover all the roads red berries cannot speak you say? they tell a story anyways.
colours like these, i'd like to be, if i could choose. colours like these i could not wear, shirt or even shoes. cheerful like a little bird, singing in a tree. colours say or seem to say magic words to me, i wait for autumn every year to see such coloured trees winter, spring and summer too, i endure to see trees like these and every season, and each day, the weather seems to have a say, in every thing we do.
we were younger then, we've always been before. lost memories, i don't know whose, in failing wood, a family here before summer sunlight blackened wood... years followed years, sun beating down. they raised a barn. so far away from any little town... clocks will run on histories now might be forgotten. but ruins left behind tell a story. some passed by this place and built.
some fine afternoon i may confess. uneaten berries do not tempt. until i see a little bird eat these and not die i won't touch. not far away i saw a viper surrounded by chattering people, all the way around! it had no escape. i crouched nearby and made a photo. oh, see how smart i am, shooting from feet away! some fine afternoon i may confess. uneaten berries do not tempt. until i see a little bird eat these and not die i won't touch.
witness the fallen. their season now has passed. disorder has descended now, made a mess. cold on wet earth, feeling nothing, gone forever... gone and not gone colour lingers. (like recent fame) we came and saw shattered remnants (just memories now and broken ones at that) they sleep forever. beauty remains somehow, such faded memories! felled by failing light, wild winds and icy rain, we saw their bright colours, they'll return again.
a bold array of colours, makes us smile. as days get dark and colder, we can use such help. mums we've seen as well, in autumn pots. they add colour, as is needed in such evil times. husbands carry potted plants for cheery wives. bright colours bold and cheery light our lives.
down on the tile roof, a little damp remains... tropical rain sometimes so warm, sometimes it plugs the drains. wet tile roofs, that might not, blow away... as stories go, some things you cannot say. maybe her last trip ever, you never know. i hold my mouth and think again. words choke. they will not come. stuck in my throat. (life without some pictures) we are taught. some words must not be said you know. some thoughts must not be thought. down on the tile roof, a little damp remains... tropical rain sometimes so warm, sometimes it plugs the drains.
cold to touch now, lava was so hot so many years ago. it flowed like water into the sea. old lava now and rich in rust (old iron) and the waves break on it (erosion wins). that boulder squats quietly as we sail past.
they plan and scheme and count imagined profits. then the whole world changes and unimagined disaster... we see a desert plant with small blossoms (called hen and chicks) as if a family but exotic, bears a closer look. some details matter. unimportant bits just fade away. it has no plans, no schemes, or imaginary profits. bury your head in the centre of the flower. one day perhaps, our world will be restored.