The Collector (Roget's Soliloquy)
The Collector (Roget’s Soliloquy)
In my book……..
Words – so simple in their sound
they fall like snowflakes on a lake
and interlock their unique form
until the water gives way to their power,
becoming something bigger,
something cold and hard and beautiful.
Or a flame, just a spark at first
until the kindling catches and the embers
jump from twig to dry grass,
a blazing range of colour, heat and rage.
I sit and sort the snowflakes.
I flit among the flames.
Words – a vivid fall of leaves
that tip from stoic trees
their gaudy greens masked
in a cascade of amber, rust and bronze.
Settling and becoming strong together,
simple potency gathering
around the trunks of those
who only see the basic
shapes hanging from branches
that clutch to hold them.
I harvest autumn hues.
I press them between pages.
In my book……