New works || Sketchbook || Old works || Old-master studies || About me || Contact
 


Scent...


I filter out the noise, the inconsequentials
and what I hear is the sound of breathing
I'm not surprised its not mine
for my head heaves against the chest of the Universe.
And the Universe breathes, as if in sync
with you.

My eyes smart, I blink and look again
The glow expands in my vision
rainbow edges waxing and waning
I've been looking at it - far too long
trying to find traces of that scent
I got so used to when opening gift packages

The star twirls in my hand, freshly dusted
and glittery as it was the day it had arrived
There is glitter on my clothes, my hands
And the Universe still glitters with remnants of stars
which have died long since.

I look at the bouquet; The whites have long
turned into brown. Dry and fragile, barely-there roses
the silk ribbons have come undone
I'm afraid to touch, for it may all fall apart
and turn into dust.
An ancient fragrance wafts across
like, the memory of a stream
dancing downhill, etched on the rock-face.

I listen to Claude, nimble fingers caressing keys
notes tumbling in slow motion all around me
I'm carried in its sweep...
like flotsam to the unknown.


c o p y r i g h t    p r o s e n j i t  r o y

  New works || Sketchbook || Old works || Old-master studies || About me || Contact