The Collector (Roget’s Soliloquy)

 

In my book……..

 

Words – so simple in their sound

they fall like snowflakes on a lake

and interlock their unique form

until the water gives way to their power,

becoming something bigger,

something cold and hard and beautiful.

Or a flame, just a spark at first

until the kindling catches and the embers

jump from twig to dry grass,

a blazing range of colour, heat and rage.

 

I sit and sort the snowflakes.

I flit among the flames.

 

Words – a vivid fall of leaves

that tip from stoic trees

their gaudy greens masked

in a cascade of amber, rust and bronze.

Settling and becoming strong together,

simple potency gathering

around the trunks of those

who only see the basic

shapes hanging from branches

that clutch to hold them.

 

I harvest autumn hues.

I press them between pages.

 

In my book……