Forest of Forgetting

A bird chirps unknown thoughts from a branch in a tree that I have not seen before today. The air feels thick, with the taste of a storm or rain; I cannot tell for sure how the weather will play out, for I do not live in the clouds.

I stand in a potato sack dress, oblivious to my situation; I do not know how I came to be here, nor do I know the name of this country.

I know nothing, yet I feel the very fabric of my surroundings. The connection with nature, as if words are spoken directly to me and only for me to hear, guides me forward.

Trees remind me of the Tree-Folk and their many stories; the wisdom they share with only a selected few. I feel closer to something as I step across an invisible threshold into the forest.

The weight of some emotional distress lingers on my skin and in my mind; I hold back the welling of my heart and those tears wanting to spill and run free towards the forest floor.

Something is missing from my many layers. It is as though my past, personality, and me, the person standing in a forest, ceases to be what she once was.

I walk to remember. I walk to forget. I walk through the ever-increasing darkening of the forest as rain does not come. Instead, snow begins to fall.

The snow should be cold. The snow should make me feel cold, yet it makes me feel calm.
I stand still, waiting for something to come.

In the forest of forgetting, I walk, and I walk until I remember what it is that I must finish.

Wild Rain

I wrote this one yesterday.
We have experienced Winter in Spring.
It’s lovely, as the rain is everywhere at the moment, yet the thought of Summer makes me wish for more rain and cold weather.

A rain cloud kind of wild day
Petrichor blew away by the wind

The wild rain calling outside
Placing my empty porcelain cup

The inside smells cannot win
Walking outside to feel the wild rain

A Darkening Room

The light begins to take cover under a sea of clouds;
the clouds move closer and grower darker and darker.

I keep the light off in my room, waiting for the rain to
begin, and hoping for the chance to show you a photo.

You are stuck in North Queensland being burnt by the
sun every day; I sit here in the cold, wet winter I love.

The night creeps closer, and the sky becomes darker,
as the rain starts to fall and move down the window.

I take a series of photos, then send my best one to you,
although I think you will say the weather is yucky again.

The night sets in. I imagine you out and about in the
garden, talking to the neighbour or cooking dinner for two.

You stay locked in North Queensland, and I stay locked in
Gippsland, as we wait for the chance to hug and kiss again.

The light is a faded memory on the horizon, as twilight loses
to the night and the absence of moon and stars leaves only
the reflection of someone I should know better in the window.