BLACKBIRD RAIN.

On Saturday, May 24, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Now, where was i? Briefly dozing by a fireside on a low moist grey day. Memory traces taking a long steady curve. Upfront and barreling down a patchwork web of backroads under overarching trees drenched and dripping in runnels on the rough road bend.

 

Musing and mumbling for months about May Blossom, while bailing bucketfuls of rain from the moat to the drain.

Backroads of the subconscious fertile mind and body of Earth. Elemental glimpse of vivid green and a dark shrouded lake below a mountain flashing through, obliterated by fly-by branches, shaking rivulets of rain across the wing mirror.

 

Momentary far naked eye glance, too 'in there' for the zoom. Retreating rain in loaded veils of Chinese grey, far away, atmospheric and insubstantial. In sullen soft and muted mood, primal wash across distant dark conifers.

The monochrome evening sweetening the green, impasto painting the portions of the pagan patchwork. Tough tyres along a short straight and narrow grey gravel road.

On an elevated terrain, trucking like a train into a station, or otherwise designated destination, and pull in to park beside a wild garden gate. Bright pink flowers straggle down the blue water barrel's deep reflection.

Rich leaf mulch mantle a warm cloak for flowering and edible beds, where there's wild abundance and fertility there's a way, and anyway it's the month of May.

 

A feast of food on the table in the flicker of candle flame, what better? Parlour shrine of cushions and vine, sofas, yantras, mandalas, and gongs, the backroads of the fringes of time. Bodhisattvas sipping tea in bamboo cabins among clouds of unknowing.

Softly we sang to the drum and the gong, the song and the strum, in the mode of muse and vocal modulation.

There is a certain resonance, what more can i say? Heartbeat pulse of the planet herself. Blessed in casual calm and harmonious humour of warm laughter while fine-tuning the flow and regulating the resonance.

Sometimes a timeless voice comes through, surfing an ancient wave of feathered primal song as it always was. And where's the tribal sense of wit or wisdom in trying to describe vibration when it can be sung?

A very simple sense of wonder is fortunately in my face and favour. While well aware the world is war torn, i am moved toward the blossom of the hawthorn. The essence of omens of warm, of freshness and purity of a sudden flourishing in lace-light, cream snowy abundance.

As if that could express when a breeze blows and petals fall, each one in its rightful place.

All within a kaleidoscope of rainbows over bright fields in the rain. Or you can focus on the grey, and forget to dream of the redeeming sweetness of green, with the neutral perfect compliment between.

Then my doze was syncopated by three coal bags by the door, later by lupins and a tray of pea plants delivered in the box of pots i'd bought. Then a startled blackbird call finds me at home in the hushed garden.

Such that i revived revitalized from momentary barometric slumber. To fine-tune things like rhythms and strings. Which reignited the artistic spark, and with blunt soft pencil freely scribe these shapes of words in snail trail printed moments like a true impressionist.

There are no words at all for the all, the all which is beyond all imaginary division and all classification.

Just this, blackbird in the rain and nothing else.~

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Makes Rainbows/ aka RBM