Homing
one
wind
blowing open my coat,
pulling my hair.
a dancing balloon in a darkening sky;
bushes trembling, shouting
alive with the smell,
the feel of
bright, hard fingers of air;
the music of leaf on leaf,
twig on trunk:
woodwind
two
through the glass, brightly
a pale winter sky
the back side of a brick house in the sunshine
that makes me think somehow of Karori,
floating in the air
above gale-blown clouds
three
words from a book:
belonging // or longing to be.
I always thought
there was a choice to be made
but maybe
it was just about finding
a way to be both
–credit to Melina Marchetta, On the Jellicoe Road, for words that have haunted me
Yellow Wood 