home. my place and space, where water coloured edges fray with memories.
invisible roots plunge deeply and firmly, anchoring souls, like a salmon remembering their stream
home. my memories tumbling in the waves. they are smoothed and rounded and soft. the jagged edges no longer burn with salt.
the tides ebb and flow even when I am landlocked. the moon tugs at the current and waves rush to fill a small gap in my heart.
home. where deep, salty waters preserve my roots.
The loose refuse twinkles with dewy drops – sparkly garbage ornaments decorate every alley.
Everyone is lazy, slowly moving, barking less, smiling more. They look scrubbed and fresh too as though they spent the night under a downspout.
The air, fresh and suffused with richness, shook clean of dust, odor, and heat. The breeze plays it cool.
Filaments of sharp, crisp, verdant smells are layered over a rich earthiness.
Feet have trampled the casualties, melting them into a carpet of pink blossoms, a tribute to the wind, a cushion for my soul.
Mud tracks, previously roads, gush with silty water making sandy, dusty swirls as the sun bakes their waters to steam.
A drip drop is all that is left. Enough to quench no thirst but my ear, wanting to hear, for one moment more, the rain song.
…to get rolling, move, move, forward towards something unfamiliar
blissfully ignorant of any stress or trouble that might lie ahead
simply basking in the warmth of family and friends
eager to catch a glimpse of a waving flag or smiling face or perhaps a snag of rugged mountain
it is time to get moving