wayfarer: a poem for Catherine
Between scratchy palms,
I found you
taking tea on the fussy streets.
A wayfarer betwixt patchwork houses,
eyes settled beyond the deep.
In the matchbox village,
I saw you
with blueprints baked by careful hands.
Watercolour timestamp bleeding
from sketch paper out to land.
In the promise of endless summers
and daydreams of canvas bare,
oh, the places I find you waiting,
taking time to stand and stare.
'What is this life?', I ponder.
A question all at once so grand.
Your love-locked spirit
etched
among the pages
held
tight between my hands.
___
A few months ago, my paternal grandmother passed away. When she wasn't filling me in on the latest gossip or taking photographs of people, places and things, Catherine Kennedy was an artist.
Whilst padding the cobbled streets of a small Catalan village, a week or so after her funeral, I found myself picturing her tucked away amongst the houses, imagining her with pen and paper sketching the byways in front of her.
I took these visions …
I found you
taking tea on the fussy streets.
A wayfarer betwixt patchwork houses,
eyes settled beyond the deep.
In the matchbox village,
I saw you
with blueprints baked by careful hands.
Watercolour timestamp bleeding
from sketch paper out to land.
In the promise of endless summers
and daydreams of canvas bare,
oh, the places I find you waiting,
taking time to stand and stare.
'What is this life?', I ponder.
A question all at once so grand.
Your love-locked spirit
etched
among the pages
held
tight between my hands.
___
A few months ago, my paternal grandmother passed away. When she wasn't filling me in on the latest gossip or taking photographs of people, places and things, Catherine Kennedy was an artist.
Whilst padding the cobbled streets of a small Catalan village, a week or so after her funeral, I found myself picturing her tucked away amongst the houses, imagining her with pen and paper sketching the byways in front of her.
I took these visions …
