mists encroaching

Boy sharpens a knife on the back
of a ceramic plate.
River running like wind through trees.
Wet drips like the anticipation of
coffee. And a towel on the line,
swaying in time with the back two
legs of my chair.

Toes grow cold but the smell of
woodfire reaches inside and tells the
body not to fret.

Timber smells of home and concrete is
easy on the arches.

All around is white, but as in
a cloud, a dream of malaria pills,
phantom itches and fish sauce.

There is a walk to come, but for
now, the sitting, rocking, en-opening to
feel the chill until it is warm, will pass
until the longest moment fades away.

Snapshots, scribbles, memory condensed
to one smell, one tiny frame, not
colour but texture, not size but
sense.

And then the tapping gets insistent,
the smoke smells of time-to-eat,
the TV flickers in Chinese under
Vietnamese, under local commentary,
and universal understanding of
shot composition and bad acting.

And stepping away but bringing some
indelible part, like a sliver of building
timber with you in your pocket.

11/2/2011