nature

Callum Featherstone

Water

Waking by the lakeside
where water walked
like a messiah.

A river takes in snake’s wind
hawk’s reflection
in the mire.

Liquor danced around
the ashen clouds
sickly somersaults on higher.

Cascading down
in fluid’s ribbon shrouds
silver sunk cerulean’s perspire.

Can you hear the liquid sanctify
all below in their desire?

Can you taste the juices amplify
the knowing font’s admire?

When the waters swell
their waying courses
will you wait with all damned liers?

Or, wish upon them well
like snowy horses
wavely crest’s fall before sand’s ire?

A dream I had said, “Break nigh
simply bend forked
by trident’s wetly wire.”

It curled crashing o’er forsaked eyes
a flooding torrent wrought
as I awoke by the lakeside
where water walked
like a messiah.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A Cascade of Yellows

A cascade of yellows
came to follow
me today.
From
the
out
side
of a chest-
nut tree cover-
ing it’s bay. Although
it went unnoticed by
a multitude of folk.
The way it chimed
profusely I could
swear it to me
spoke;

“Here
my fronds offer
our platitudes in the
inked half of the year.
In the blondness is our
gratitude before they
sink unto the rear.
You will find
within
the


fall


that you’ve made a fallen friend.

And green beginnings
change just like flaxen leaves.

Yet do return
aft gloomy season’s end.”


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Autumntime

Greens have gone,
From foggy view,
Days are dust,
In darkened hue,
Hours vast light,
Now, dwindles, few.

Thronging sepia, scarlet, yellows,
Waylay, the walkway, steps unsettled,
Slipt strides skulk their creptly echoes.

Harvest comes to croon its yearly cast,
Dyeing embered leaves on weary paths.

Yet, the songs seem to taste,
Of cindered yore,
Like, a belly full of fire gone to war.

The ash in its haste,
Falls fret and sore,
Whilst the Tinder and the Kindling’s,
Flames burst fore.

And, I sit in burning meadows,
Neath black cloud,
Raindrops flit, a yearning sizzle,
Steams;

A shroud.

Covering our footprints with,
Falls, dusty, wet,
Entwined with blazing leaves,
Beckoned syne,
Taut mind — affixes hazy memories,
Reckoned, pined,
For joy’s while, betwixt mazes free,
.
From echoed;

Autumntime.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Thank You, Hummingbird

Travelling toward; aglow.

A Hummingbird of fire,
hanging wingly snow,
that obliterated ire.

It delivered me — a message,
in envisioned freedom’s essence.

When, I feel it, again, at my snowblind end,
I’ll thank it for a lend, of belly-flamed repent.

As, I flew amongst those frozen blazes,
that purloined balance from our ages,
and, called upon prophets and messiahs, doomed to burn to dust; Ignatius.

Like, so many, uplifting, scriptures pages.

Yet, my fiery, snow-tipped Hummingbird,
never turned, or, forgot my words, nor, faces.

I’ve worn many through my stages — books, profiles and cases.

But, my Hummingbird,
floating there in stasis,
is a transcendental dirge,
that lives to soar within my traces,
a vestige not seen or heard,
by other people’s gazes,
nor ears buzzed and stirred.

My Hummingbird,
saved me from,
extinction,
with a cold and warm embrace,
that I’ve since adorned,
within my graces.

So, it might sound and look absurd,
but, thank you, for my life; Hummingbird.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Tunnels of Leen

Water dug a new slipstream.

Caught running through stunned
Was me
Spun in this dream.

Down sleepy funnels extreme
Round freecoming blues.

By the tunnels of Leen.

A cormorant drying
It’s wings by a bank
Without need for green
Nor worry or thank.

Whispered, “I’m flying
While you all are sank.”
I smile
With dank pockets
Empty
And lank.

Brown trout and an eel
Carp, tench and a bream
All proudly swum t’ward me
In a fashion much pleased.

They shout..

“You might well be sunken
But at least you are free
Like a soothsayers unction
Rolls their tongue
Comes a sea.”

I responded..

“Yes, when I am sunken
I’ll return to the turf
Either dusty or shrunken
While you bask in the surf.
Aft asunder, I’ll meet you
Again by the stream
In no wonder I’ll greet you
By the tunnels of Leen.”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Sligeachan’s Song (Shelly’s Place)

I’m the waters; still —

running.

Oozing was Hebridean sorcery
outslipt liquid’s shaman
her name is, Sligeachan,
to her neigh-bours.

At, Shelly’s Place,
where silver foam horses sleep
alongside uisce enablers
drams canter at pace.

Whilst waterfalls slipstream
down the rocks to the basin
pooled equestrian dreams
plunge crashed stony abrasion.

As wishing-well goes
lifeforcing pucas and kelpies.
Missing spells flow
proof’s unliving to help me.

My well-wishing legs, froze
time slowed with the waters; still —

running.

To cascades wet, crispy-cold
inside, Sligeachan’s song,

                                                              caught;

myself: humming.

I became the waters;

Two of Sligeachan’s horses,

One of Shelly’s placed sons and daughters.

I’m the waters; still —

running.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Mysty Mynded Fountains

It’s hard, this life at times. Like;
carv-
ing algebra equat-
ions
into granite.
With
mysty mynds
and all of
those, why?, god-
ammits.
Yet,
pers-                           ever-                           ance
has                     found                     me,
lost. And, carried me when I’m nought
& cross. It’s not easy, but if it was,
would we care, as much?
For, every raindrop, that fills the puddle,
the lake, the river and the ocean.
Has it’s journey of which to speak of, through it’s own cascading potion.
A feeling, an emanation, a glimmer, an emotion. A way, to make, a shimmer in the sheen, over brook or stream,
in every fountain, of our mysty mynded ; notions.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Autumnal Rains

Fine and smooth are Autumnal rains.
That pine to soothe, then, wipe away,
the whipped raze of zealous rays,
that crack and blister over staves,
and under paves.
Proud and boastful in Summer days.

The wilds remove bare, insomnal cage,
a skyblue booth, when, white turns grey,
as drips came, quelled was jealous rage.
A blackened vista, covers brave,
bands thunder made.
Loud unroast on wondrous scape.

A cleansed motif oozed,

to bless this age.


Sent is relief’s truce;

cerule whet’s mage.



© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Bluest Blue Marlin

I lost my balance in your slipstream.
Which made me a black dolphin.
Water-fallen.
Hydrogen’s, Oxygen’s moleculed fool.
Mocked by the squalling,
squawk of rocks.
Disregarded like me at the bottom.
Surrounded with wet ridicule.
As, afterwards in scorn I’m walled-in.


Navy blue hues, shank at,
gloomed bile.
Melancholia.
Impales my stomach.
A black, gutted sea dog.
Skewered on a goring spear,
from out of my depths.
By the bluest blue marlin.

No soppy words, nor,
sentimental sentence,
could atone for my life spent, silently; whistling-clicks, bawling.
Searching for you,
in a roaring sea’s unanswers.
At the damp hands,
of your unrepentence. Your unfathering.

In which, unbeknownst to you, you carry, Irresponsibility’s goring spear, violently.
And, that is when you;
transfixed your own son.

And, became, a harpooner’s gun, called;

‘The Bluest Blue Marlin’.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Dreams Taking Root

As water wielded down on me,
wet wonders wept,
from weirs, oaks and willows.


My quarterstaff, fielded,
battlegrounds afree,
crept s-lumber leapt on fears;
soaked on wooden pillows.


Crackling barks,
trunk’s firmed resound,
did stand, aloft and proud,
in unshackled parks,
turning early worms around,
to command the squirming crowd.


Seeds, roots and stems,
met sopped drops, driply beads
to form green, brown and blue
moist-incandescent chains.


That meld the hems of reeds in place
while leaf, stock & misted dew
rise; suprastanding in their f-ireful place.