Lockdown Day 8

Blind Contour Drawing

A whisper of grey tugs at my edges
Hurry, catch the morning
A silent plea
moving silently across my closed eyes
I try desperately to hold on to my dream
when Bob Dylan played for me
and he looked like he did in the late ’80s
But its no good, he’s gone
The tall stove pipe
moves out of the darkness
up to the white-painted rafters
the first marker of the day
I dress in the dark
feel my way down the stairs
through the creaking door into the hall
where the pink glow of the salt lamp
lights the way to the porch door
Outside the big green river rock
lies in wait to bash the shins of the unwary
The faint creak of the swing bridge
and the river running below are the only sounds
Until a blackbird calls
and a bellbird answers
I look up and over in the east I see
a bright magenta patch over the hills
This is the Land of Grey and Pink
like the cover of the 70’s album by Caravan
I think of my lost dream again
Deep pink fades to peach, then yellow
and in minutes is washed back into the grey
Funny black alpaca faces
with their comical ears, appear over the fence
and walk along beside me
until we reach the green stable with the white-framed windows
The tui joins the conversation overhead
a fantail dances around me
weaving her crazy web
Then the magic happens
A light switches on
dewy meadows sparkle white
green leaves turn neon
tips of the oaks and willow glow red and amber
their shadows striping the road ahead
I hear a tiny pat
And a perfect trefoil of oak leaves
falls to my feet
the papery leaves yellowing at the edges
and a small acorn cap still attached to the knobbly stalk
I add it to my morning bouquet
of late dog roses
stems of purple hawthorn berries
and crimson rosehips
A truck rumbles past on the other side of the river
and a lone dog howls in the distance
as I head back home
The sun has reached the old phone box
its red and white glass sign
perfectly etched on the green river rock

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