For the small price
of picking poo
I have been gifted the discovery –

Of a clear blue sky, tousled by fine and loving cirrus fingers,
The whites of fat, ballooning cumulus clouds fractured by a setting sun
into a renaissance palette of gold, pink and dramatic lavender.

This happens every evening. And every evening it is different.

My dog and I witness a different flavour of this walk we take together –
His nose is smelling colours I cannot see.
My eyes are hearing layers of music he cannot hold.

Our necks arched in a dance of opposites –
His to the ground,
Mine to the sky.

Sometimes we have the same rhythm,
Sometimes we are tugged by different desires.

And he teaches me the mundane magic
Of pace.
Of pause.

Of taking the time
To marvel
the same bush
the same car tyre,
parked around the corner,
For the maybe of encounters.

And with that,
A universe.


On stars that do not emerge

This is a post that needs to be written, about journeys that are distinct reminders of JS Mill’s utilitarianism. But the moon is too high in the sky now. So this is a placeholder, for that story.