in muted rooms the damask is spoiling in backyards the pastoral slipping stories dropping stitches in the dark every street sign echoing a cast-off scream. at night the emu spreads its storyline across a rusted sky – the night-crier's bells ringing hollow go on and on into a shackled morning. another narrative begins to form in shivers its possibilities running down the necks of the dawning curious could this could this be? there's a low moan in the distant hills along the river-line needle-points of red on the pale roses the dank reeds leaking shadows into the fraying silt. the rug is changing – the buried weaving into the sun and oranges motifs of summer gardens unplucking themselves all the white-washed stories trembling in the threads. kaleidoscopic imprints flicker a silent gasp an ancient hum yes this could be.
From: Vol.10 N.01 – Private: The Transformative Now
The Changing of the Rug
by Julie Watts