I could sit and dream, read and think about writing forever in these picturesque landscapes and cabins.
For dVerse Poets we are writing a haibun based on a lesser-known painting by Van Gogh. For more information about this poetic form, please visit dVerse Poets Pub, where you will meet many talented poets of all ages, experience and taste. As for the title of the poem: ‘postliminary’ is the opposite of ‘preliminary’ – something that occurs after the fact.
Post-holidays, post-weekend, the party’s over, the curtains drawn.
Sweep floors, fold laundry, sigh over undone homework and chores. The clatter clutter glitter mutter of video games on a loop and on sufferance. I don’t want to be the mother that forbids. I don’t want to be parent with the unpopular principles, old-fashioned moans, the terror reign of rules.
I dream of a walk in autumnal country fields, swish-detour through the leaves. I dream of a time when you sought my company, when ‘Mama’ was spoken without reproach. Our laughter mingling, our hands meeting, grubby faces to be kissed. Tell me of your hopes, your fears, the mere dull niggle of the everyday. Debate a book, a film or life, open up your eyes and mind to breathe in all, to question but love. In front, the distant hum of the village, fattened to post-prandial languor. To the right the church tower is but a squiggle, the bell tone playful not grave. Ahead of us a horizon I want limitless and full of sunrays for you.
Like the fields we stretch
away to gold and gray. Look –
how near how far the change!
If I were there
timorous would encircle to describe me
with flutter-crawl of insect wings.
Milk-white skin best left to curdle
would be my hurdle in sweltering rays.
Foliage whisper would impinge
on my dreams with rumours wild.
Somersaults turned in haste to tinge my conscience.
I cannot understand
this rainforest calling in me:
relentless beat of fevered blood
winter nights are still too short
to share you with friends.
If you must pass too:
let the murmur of the snow
be your only guide.
hugs its icy green mantle
closer to its heart.
Shrill squawks of delight
our boys, your boys: who can tell?
If laughter ceases,
what is left? Bring more mulled wine!
Games room rings with us.
Inside the prison,
outside of the storm,
I am laughing.