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Angels & Walnuts

A poem for The Harvest
KAUKAU, June 2022







As rain falls heavy on the roof of her garage studio,
Gianna tells me about holding a datura flower in her hands and falling asleep,
                time slipping away.

Walking home at night, sea mist floats in halos around the streetlights.
I walk past my house to the beach: dark sand, the washing of waves, salt air.

Around the curve of the bay, black water ripples between shadowy trees.



~*~




Calm days of warm autumn light. Eating feijoas outside in morning sun, the garden hazy from sea air, smelling of salt and seaweed.

            Lying on the lawn, arms spread wide, golden sky.

On the hill: a small walnut tree,       its leaves caught golden in the last of the sun.

Sitting in the grass next to the walnut tree, eating a chocolate-coated caramel heart. Melting in to the earth. Smell of ground,         grass seed in low sunlight.




~*~



In misty rain I run my fingers through dew caught on the ends of green fennel, edging the path below the walnut tree.

Pine trees grow up from the valley below the road, their branches reaching level with the footpath. New pinecones form along the branches; the hard green cones smooth under my fingers and wet with rain.




She collects willow branches as they fall to the earth.




~*~




Sitting on the slope below the walnut, I watch fog travel in waves across the hills,              moving in from the sea.

Angel’s trumpets hang in the fog
at the entrance to a garden.



Walking through cloud along the beach, the ocean and sand are silver,
             water floating in the air.



~*~




I shower in the dark during a lightning storm
so I can watch the flashes light up the bathroom.

~


In a meadow in the south of France,
a friend sits in the spring sunshine and writes a poem.

The meadow is covered in acorns,
and yellow dandelions facing the sun.

~



She showers in the dark, just to see the light.



~*~




On the street above my studio, angel’s trumpets grow in the heat of the sun.




On days of rain, the skylight glows pale light down into the shadows, water falling on glass. The wet green branches of trees outside the window droop and sway.

~


At night, when all is still and dark, I listen to the ocean.
       Through the open bathroom window, waves echo off the neighbour’s house.



~




She slept with a flower cupped in her palm.





~*~














“showers in the dark just to see the light”
is an excerpt from friend Jane Paul’s poem, sent from the meadow in France


Copyright
Briana Jamieson
© 2022