Filling the Air

To write about a tree branching overhead,
               bark thickly clumped beating resistance from summer heat,
               To take these words and make them more than what was seen.
To write about table and seats in the sun,
               city planning failed to place them in the afternoon shade,
               To take these words and make them more than what was seen.
To write about something that made me feel alive,
               To bring death upon the boredom of continued existence. . .
              
Was it a jam of notes scaling a fretboard,
               harmonising and clashing with equal temperaments;
               Rushing for release to fill the void that was once a flurry of
               activity fingers are now too eager to forget?
Was it words flowing from a radiant face,
               delighted and enthusiastic at this chance to speak;
               Rushing for release to spill the dreams of a life hanging further
               and further out of reach?
Was it powder shooting up rolled notes so clean,
               accurate and hitting the nasal cavity instantly;
               Rushing for release from the crystal prison deep inside where
               expectations are forgotten absently?

Was it all these things that didn’t want to end,
               trailed the rain to find new shelter overhead,
               found seats so comfortable they couldn’t be traded,
               for whisky, for wine, for more notes filling the air.
Was it all these things that didn’t want to end,
               with morning light came the reminder again,
               the chase was up and time was spent,
               for whisky, for wine, for more notes filling the air.

• Gisborne, 05/01/15