A Slight Narrative

Shelley McIntosh


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a cold endless stillness that seems to

yet connect my quiddity.

 

A literature of Moss, lichens on the empty half stump near the path, pale pale green fractures decomposing bark like black velveteen after the rain. Shards of the day, lapwing sounds.

 

My fingers move slowly along November's earth loam fertile in stillness, damp mushroom rot smell of dank closing in towards the fault. I slip past the verticals to the rocks while catching something flitting through the briars concerning the question surrounding surrounding surrounding. The woods bathed in a sea green light limns a cold, endlessly breathing stillness which seems to connect to my growing awareness of the possibilities of the escalator. Down.

Sleeping laburnum hides striations, chilled margins, now limestone to the cordillera – quartz, feldspar slowed to a crystallized halt.

Descend scenic root to deep strata.

 

Thermal depths with crystalline metamorphic layers reaching to sleeping sentience. Warmth of friction plates, thermal rifts and fissures and a gentle subduction in the great slow down time, a fractured unconscious calculus.

 

Down to the sea conscious membrane.

Where the river slips pewter on gelatin silver. Now, my photo- etched memories come one by one, a sense of fathoming all this before. That such a place should be a lurk. Green pale luminous green sea surrounding waters forever breathing, I can trace the line that begins from my point of entry along the shore, trolling sometime north along an inconsolable margin to the watery corollary washing on breath shore.

 

Disturbances along the marginalia, the flora and fauna a phenomenology of teeth and fringes. Tiny annihilations measured out in obscure rhythms where the spectator never goes. My mind slips easily into the limbs of a possibility that the eternal perpetrator lurks hardly by.

 

A quid for a quaff at the Quip & Quill.

Smokey hall conceals a ballroom high note, down to the lower corner where the perpetual spectator is spinning querulous sympathies. After a nervous unspooling, all energies agree, only the description creates a vacuum.

“What has no boundaries, no ends and one must go faster than the speed of light to get all the way around before it ends.”

 

Later, before the conversation became too discriminating, attentions were drawn to the rosy north window. A glassed in sense of river ocean forest even a mountain or two became central to a situated study of the measured surface, ripples lapping around stones, cobbles in parentheses revealing the geometer’s prank.

 

Charmed.

And even strange. But now to the crux. This interested me, all

it seemed I had to do was to remember all the intentions that fell from the verge of uncertainty. I had only to hold up a mirror and would be made party to a rich topography. Tiny pairs of words, quadrillions of syllables, rhythms of rhythms arranged in sentiences. A way I suppose of being able to wander in the wry zones and hold my own.

 

But the willful molecules deferred, and declined to go beyond the measure whose duration resides in a cold crucible.

In the purple wanings, the elements watched the horizon becoming line becoming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Kater Murr's Press, Piraeus Series, 2005. 
Cover image: ‘Enigma (1)’ by Shelley McIntosh
Text and image copyright © Shelley McIntosh, 2005