From the star the finger pointed.
Light or lightning leapt the chasm and new life sparked to heartbeat. Energy in the bellied seed became the sapling, the desert oak which stands upon red-sanded rock. Branches spread in shelter, night air now rests soft.
Journeys, arrivals, tables overturned.
And so the life of ever begins, a star, and finger pointing.
pale moon, stars, chalk clouds
snow on the distant mountains
night waiting, or night, waiting
The god cast a handful of seed silver-swirling across the night sky. And then they were the net of stars that catch our breath, our thoughts, our dreams, and leave us sleepless for wonder of the darkness beyond them.
Open air cinema in the wood
this evening.
Tickets five euros
including free drink.
Bats cut across
key scenes in counterpoint.
Nothing, but nothing, is written in the stars. Except the words I felt when you held my hand and the stars fell towards the sea.
When all the clocks tick toxic
When all the stars are magic
When all the clouds disappear from above
There is only one thing it can be –
I pulled stars down from the soft black sky and crushed them hard in my hands to a gold-white powder. A mixture then with caught rainwater, a fingertip of honey and a tear. Then a syringe and slammed into my veins.
The old man told me: Night after night the moon kisses the sea to hide her pale loneliness. Then, from behind the thinning clouds, the stars appear. Several fall and disappear, but if you watch closely, one, always one, flies across the face of the moon. She turns her head and a night breeze rises, follows the star and he rides the night wind with the moon. For a night at least he is hers and she his. And that is what you must live for.
– It’s called a starry sky, that’s what it’s called.
– I know, but it should be a starred sky, not starry. They didn’t get there on their own, did they? Someone – something – put them there.
– Look, one’s falling, shooting across the sky, make a wish, make a wish.
– So someone’s pushed it. Imagine it, a huge finger with a huge manicured fingernail flicking the star so it skeets across the sky.
– Aye, that’s maybe. But now look at me, look at me wide eyed, so I can see where the stars have fallen to, see the diamond light in your black black eyes.
– Babe?
– Yes, babe?
– The sky’s enough, isn’t it?
– Yes. Yes, the sky’s enough.
The tip of the lost wand poked up through the gravel, as if a sharp star or the shine in your eyes had fallen from soft blackness. I was barefoot. And that was the story that repeated itself again and again.
