The Earth’s Archives

November composes lines
in ochre ink, a sparrow beaks dot
and comma on withered leaves.
The wind flips pages, wets its fingers
in pools of rain. Soon winter will bind
nature in snow covers, a new volume
for the Earth’s archives.

Far away, on rippled sheets of sand,
the season’s stuck on climax.
The sky licks Bedouin’s shadow with
passioned words of sun in oyster silence
dripping sweat pearls and insects.

The same sky stretches azure fingers,
skim alabaster and granite peaks
where eagles clasp fossil bookmarks,
claw dried memories of liquid blues.

The Earth keeps record of its cycles,
moulds them in icy mountains that float
and gleam sharp green. Cracks in ice floors
let volumes sink in underwater library.
Others emerge from steamy mouths,
regurgitate lava alphabet on pages
to be rewritten on ashes.

© Paula Grenside


Commentary:

Dictated by an Autumnal day here, contrasted with a scorching Summer in Saudi Arabia. This was the beginning of the poem. A lover of nature, I observe its changes and the infinite poems it writes. Seasons are the same yet different in time and place. The idea of where or how nature keeps record of ageless books and cycles appealed to me and I expanded the poem. There are bookmarks of unread books in rocks; there are volumes sealed in ice and the pages nature destroys are to be rewritten. Nature recreates endlessly; the lines we read are always new and no matter how hard we try we'll always be poor imitators. The poem is my humble tribute to the greatest poet that never tires to revise.

Paula Grenside
Bonfire contributor