poetry, trails of thought



Indigo was a colour she always associated, for some

reason, with love.  She hadn’t, until recently,

associated love with not keeping

people close.

That, not long ago, changed as a result of the

life she’d lived: this life … it’d finally taught

her the importance of freely given

laughter: maybe even freely given friendship:

and if friendship was no significant

part of love, then what point could there be

to such beings or states?

But that “recently” she was thinking and considering

and wondering had taught her not only the

importance of laughter but also the importance

of letting go of everything you very most

ever would ever go and want to live.

The truth of the matter was that her love

for another, for a man of wonderfully freedom-

loving ways, for a spirit unbound by

the cruelty of people who might prefer – in their

casual nightly nastiness – to cover up the

reality of all community undone, was

not hers to pose nor repose – nor impose:

and so that’s what that

recent experience of love had gone and taught her

to daughter as offspring are born in true

affection and life.

And she felt so much love for this other she thought

of, who

hardly could

ever be hers now again, in the absence of persistent

communication and writings, and

wronging and

righting like capsizing boat.

And she loved so very much

the seas of her land, and she realised

that this was the key to her plan:

no longer could she imagine a love

so constrained where wild and

foolishly pursued and defined

as a story which no

body on this rock could ever

comprehend in the full and utter

good faith she felt

was her due (but

who would believe her now?).

But neither would she fake as that

big “F” of film the sadness of

living in the movement of

declining efforts no

longer effortless to the mind she was

gently losing to the

gently closing findigo colour of the love she

now understood rightly meant – above all other

expression – the freedom for another to be

exactly as they are:

not the believing of the first to impose the how or what

or where: nor out of personal

conviction, where their emotion lies its nap,

is there to be found a truth more significant than

any lap of warm exposure.

For her love affords no rights

to her – no rights at all, dear love; nor splendid

isolations – if love indeed it is: looking to sustain and

maintain the kindnesses of liberty (not bodices

lustfully pulled apart and off, but

freedoms freely distributed, and kept cut as gently as

grass).  And so she realised the truth and came

face to face with reality: her love was so large and so

big and so kind that in no mind of sanity could

she force her love on the

reality of the lover she most ever loved in her life.


Till death do us part is not the pain nor the suffering

which most hurts the heart and the soul and the

being: what most cuts to quick, as fast as a


knife of cinematic proportions, is not the in-

sanity but the reality of love: when you love

a person that much, you just have to let them

fly free.



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