The season of dust

29 08 2012

Dust dry

Dry. Dust-dry. It is the season of dust.

Blown mostly for it is the season of wind too but it also drifts. Wafts. Dust skrits and grits under the computer mouse like finger nails on a chalkboard. A patina on all horizontal and even vertical surfaces dulling the pictures in the office. Brown finger prints on the paper in the printer. Brown stains on shirt collars. Brown coagulated snot blown into the toilet paper.


It piles on the cables under the desk discouraging pulling of electrical plugs. It is dry. Dry like the skin that scales and itches begging for moisture relief from a plastic bottle. The bush is dry too, begging desperately for rain that is still nearly three months away. It has to wait, patient and stark, stripped naked and scorched by fires that rage by day and glow at night.

Dust gathers and settles silently – day and night.

Feet no longer footfall but plopf soft in the talc dust. Paws kick up a trail of dust behind the running dog. Bicycle tyres lift a miniature upside-down waterfall of dust. It gets into the car through ageing seals, clogs air filters. It obscures the sun. It is everywhere. Insidious. Creeping.

It is the season of dust.

A bad night

15 02 2008

It seems
when demons
roam my dreams
at night,
I wake
to find
I’ve left behind
a piece of mind
and I wonder what it means.

Like “Burning” this one came to me relatively quickly whilst driving into town having slept very little. I was so tired that it was all I could do to dodge the ubiquitous potholes but maybe that was the key, the tiredness that is, to the creativity? I deliberately spelt piece that way though I did think of using “peace” too. Hey, it’s art anyway!