Category Archives: Man-made objects

166: Barbed Wire

166 barbed wire pippalou mf

Hostile needling presence, pieces of fleece trailing in the breeze, caught on your claws, like piked heads to warn those straying from the flock. Borders with spikes to grab at intruders, a pointed rebuff. Your thorns are coarse and unyielding, steel roses will not grow between them, only a knotted, twisted metal yarn, thickening the guarded plot.

Is this door closed to us, then, even though both sides seem the same? Miles of dusty nothing separated by an unmanned, unmanning fence. Shall we seek the gate, the way, the five barred gate and return to the fold, or climb, undeterred, ragged-trousered daring, tumbling head-first, talons enmeshed in foolish flesh, sheep-like stupidity undaunted, till we lay bleeding and breathless, panting on the desert floor, looking back to where we came from and wondering at the greenness of the grass?

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

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165: Mine

hotblack mine mf

Dark lines spreading from the centre, blacker than treacle and deeper than grief. Here glints gold that glisters truly, and without pretence, calling to the greedy glimmer in our eyes and the heart of the delver-digger-dwarf in all of us. How we long to gather the treasure in our weathered aprons, to hold it to ourselves and hoard its heaviness! You speak of brightness and purity, and the reality of wealth, such that we might have you in our palm to possess, without any danger of nuggets slipping through errant fingers. Softness clawed from the hard earth, unclogging veins and arteries that travel deep and mesmerisingly meander their glowing way.

Once seen, we shall not be able to help ourselves and follow that subcutaneous line until lost and utterly besotted, weighed down with more than our strength can bear, never to return to the fresh air, sat here in dark places, faces painted with reflected light.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

163: Pothole

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERA

Collapsed under the sheer weight of traffic, implosion caused by heavy loads that were never yours to bear, not for you to carry, even for that one moment in which they passed over, rumbling in thundering juggernauts. Now you stand, cracked and broken, dug out to the composite core, fissures filling with rainwater, and see no way out. There is no budget for repairs, no end to the emptiness, and you sink down and spread out in your misery, and even your edges are lost to you.

Road pock now avoided by all, leper of the lane, I pray might you now find a calm in the centre of the highway that you grace. Might you now relax into your frayed borders, new crow’s feet cracks forming as you take the time to laugh in the rain. Might you now, perhaps, sometimes sing of what lies beneath the smoothness and teach all of us how to make ponds and gardens out of the sinkholes in our lives.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

150: Tarmac

tarmac 150

In the bleakness of almost December I think back, I remember, as my skin cracks in the cold, those long summer days of melting heat, when I stretched too far for my own surface and ran liquid across the road. I think of the bicycle stands sinking slowly into the depths of tar, like maybe trapped dinosaurs once did, and of tyre tracks that span conglomerate up into the air, spitting back down like hot hail.

For the cold is here now causing me to huddle my black beauty around centres of strength, and the weak places split like an old man’s smile. Lined I am now by more than white apartheid borders, yellow forbidden zones and cats’ eyes down my spine. Are you on the left or right? Or do you travel a middle way? Whichever you are can you see that those on the other side are as right or left as you are? For the other is not always different, and the seasons pass, and the sun will warm my epidermis again, till I simmer with stickiness like a ready rice pudding, and sparkle in the sun.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015