Painted dreams

[eclipse]

 

I followed a feather through a dream across a bridge

cloaked in feathers-cascading with false echoes of

birdsong, disparate dreams of the population drafted

a melody from echoes. The wind shaped wings floating

the bridge to correct divisions, returning Hull to it's

elusive core.

 

 

An artist with Alzheimer's, I painted sixty eyes in the sky,

the age I was diagnosed. My imagination remains free and

memories of the time a wolf running through a forest past trees,

passed through sixty eyes to the threshold of vision. I sketch

an affectionate stray cat that comes into the garden, he is

unconstrained, the claws of time are slowly cutting through my

easel. In the night sky, I see sixty eyes closing. I paint myself

with the light from stars, two figures facing each other, the first

light after leaving the womb and the first exposure to sunlight-

both sculpting memories and now the crush of dementia which

is like giving a brush to a statue next to children's playground

with two ghosts sitting on the see-saw.

 

Hull is a city where the senses will never stagnate, while sailing

on its architecture. The incandescence of the light sprayed across

Pearson Park is like a candle high above the flames of the four

seasons, waxing tears without them falling. Do leaves have ghosts?

the ghosts of a tired perception have left Hull as it hosts a new

synergy created by the city of culture, The river and sky are like

a camera and photographer that will never meet and the waves like

words that will never find a page, Hull a clock becoming aware of

it's age,

 

I have another dream in which sentences hover close to a blank page

without making contact, the page has forgotten which order the words

go and the feather returns dipped in ink. Walking through Pearson Park

memories of a childhood spent in the park return, ghostly leaves are like

tongues echoing children's laughter as winds above blow through empty

branches, winds never forget to blow moving freely where they want to.

I hold an image in my mind of clutching the moon while sliding down a

helter-skelter, just before I go to sleep that night the moon empty's its

cache of cascading falling memories. I used to walk my dog through the

park, now lost friends are walking my memories through heaven further

towards the threshold to a place where my tale will be told and I will be

free to move memories through the minds and dreams of friends and

relatives.

 

I get deja Vu walking down Hessle Road, I cannot remember the future as tears

are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts, time spent here is

liberating, like restitching nets to gather visions of the past. Hull is like a needle

with two eyes, one of them invisible making visible the allies who have been

counter stitching cultivating local culture, the thread has fallen away from the

sewers of sorrow. I have been trying to weigh fire before it starts, as Hull's

heart becomes aflame with the city of culture art.I use eyes in the sky as

stepping stones to bring home the paint brush I have swapped with time, day

and night swap tongues, I try and synchronise my strokes with time's brush,

I sketch a clock starting with the hands time completes the body cloaked in

fire, time holds it's breath and blows on the flames, sixty embers are scattered.

 

[Tinker]

This prose poem is hauntingly beautiful Barry.   I can see the painting of the 60 eyes in the sky vividly.  I loved it.

~~Tink

[tonyv]

... and I, as always, appreciate the local references, the sense of place.

Tony

[eclipse]

thanks everyone