The living gallery

 

I'm still unformed, not rigid plastic but

mouldable clay, stretchy and elastic.

 

Putty that is still being pulled into shape,

a structure with a few irregularities - a Monet,

painted by Picasso, then scrawled in crayon

by a child.

 

A living gallery of who I have been,

where I am today, and what tomorrow will bring.

All conjured into a mystical reality of melody

and tone - an inkblot turned into a painting.

 

A splash of colour in the grey, rain-stained world.

 

If I was a forest, I'd be wild, untamed.

Overgrown brush. Blackberry bushes

and delicate flowers, with soggy leftover

dreams becoming mushy footprints in the rain.

And I would pour my heart

into the leaf-carpeted floor.

 

Wildlife would thrive; songs would

live in the leaves. As birds' beaks

echo their refrain.

So many pathways,

not gravelled, but dirt tracks,

through brambles and empty patches.

The branches of every story,

splashing my eyes in dewdrop smiles.

Brushing my raw skin, in nature's healing.

 

If I was a meadow,

I'd be hillsides painted wide,

trees down one side, a river beside,

where we would let our feet soak

in the cool pure blue.

I'd be calm and open to you,

I'd be a blanket to stop the dew

from soaking you, and I'd be hope

that flows on the gentle breeze

that blows through your hair,

like fingers of a lover's hands.

 

I'd be whole lands.

Where you will always feel at home,

never alone unless you wish to be.

I'd build retreats, and communal seats,

to watch over the scenery.

 

I can be so much more.

 

I am an abundance of ideas.

 

A river rapid torrent of thought,

 

A mountain towering in majesty,

 

A valley, lying low and watching peacefully.

 

Because I'm still learning every day

to see this world, its people.

And flipping the camera back to me,

to see where I fit in this crazy dream.