The trees at the end of the lane
Drip crows, arranged
Like scruffy eighth notes
Along the grand staff outline
Of crooked branches
Clutching handfuls of dusk
Blinking sleepy indigo,
Fat butter moon cat iris
Glaring out beneath twiggy brows.

Somnolent houses
Bathe in stranger light
Wyrd glamor twisting
Normal shades to dreamscape dancing
Familiar architectures loom
Those that dwell in the spaces
The between times
Peeping out of dew lattice hedgerows
Whispering murky muddled
Pale snap finger crawl
Along the borders of sight and thought.

Footsteps on pavements
Toll lonely dusty hours
Intruding on silence thick
As moth powder wings drifting
Ruddy orange purple
Falling from sky clad thighs
Broomstick hair sweeping stars
Into cascading spark showers
Laughter high and free and wild
Riding the dark, rich currents.

Here there be magic
Flowering nightshade
Pomegranates full and fine
Spilling bloody jeweled seed
Flowering to blossoms of
Wil-o-the-whisp foxfire lightbulbs
Twisting curb sides to headstones
Backyard garden bone orchards
Shake rattling knob kneed
Dancing macabre along
The memories of black cats
Rubbing arch backed
Curling sinuous lechery.

Midnight carnival
Big top batwing canvas flapping
At heels now scurrying
Little mousy shoulder hunched
Heart pattering swifter
Than soft feather dark air stroking
Eyes darting towards home warren
Gold light mouthed normal
Beating back the rag-tag
Of crinkle rusty dry rattle goblins and beasties
Clutching burr fingered sticky to coat hem
Only at the last to be left in windrow heap
Slammed in the closing door
Sudden in rushing gasp
Enveloped again in the real and the
here and the now
The last echoes hung up
Upon the last peg with your coat.


4 Responses to “Borderlands”

  1. patois au lantern Says:

    do yer words hint at the shift in season?
    the sun-scarce days that draw us closer to punkin time?

    • A little, but I was more just playing with words and as they fell into place they took on a Ray Bradbury tone.

      • just over the horizon - east a bit Says:

        so, if you took them apart and re-assembled them, what surprising new picture might emerge?
        creativity, and funk (Geo. Clinton), is its own reward

  2. A very detailed scene. I can see it so well!

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