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
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