The light is a little hinky. The horizon dark.
A pale morning, and empty one,
full perhaps, but of what? And why?
Even the familiar feels out of kilter,
like a movie, a dream you cannot quite escape.
Alfred Hitchcock landscapes.
You can almost hear him chuckle.
See his belly jiggle in mirth.
But Hitchcock is not God,
despite all the twists and turns,
Dark corners and near escapes,
he is still a dead man, a character actor
in his own movie, nothing more
and you are in a landscape that,
when you have the courage to wait it out, blooms,
the color that somehow always arrives,
but only for the patient.
About this poem
So much going on in this poem that I cannot begin to explain it. Grab your own meaning this morning and go.
The picture was taken not far from my house.