Tag: sky
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Sky Burial
Sky burial is a sacred Tibetan ritual where the body is returned to nature, offered to birds of prey as an act of release and renewal. They say it frees the soul. But grief isn’t so easily lifted.
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Daughter of the Plains
Ochre soaked skies, sunrise woke her – blue grass seas lilt behind stained glass at dawn. On morning’s grace she’s borne. Ryan Stone
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Night Leaves the Latch Open
The sky forgets its thunder,clouds fold their arms—somewhere,a moth dreams of moonlight. Your breath slows.The world blurslike ink in rain. Stars peerthrough curtain cracks,gentle voyeursto a silenceall dreamers know. Let clocks keep timewithout you.Let the weight fallfrom your shoulders,like moonbeams. You’ve done enough. Close your eyes.The dark knows the way.It will carry you now,wherever you…
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Southern Cross
Some nights,when the wind shiftsand the silence settles deep,I step out barefootonto the cold veranda. Above the gum trees—the Southern Cross,low and steady,like it’s waiting for meto notice. It doesn’t blaze,just holds its shape,a quiet thingpointing the wayI’ve always knownbut needed to remember. Not a map.Not a promise.Just a reminderthat homeisn’t something you reach—it’s the…
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Drought Town
This is the summer of red dust. Everything sucked dry—hollow as cicada husks, wedged under eaves and porch stairs—waiting for a wind change. On the road out of town, empty grain silos loom, perched like headstones over wheat-field graves. Harvesters sag, tyres cracked like the asphalt. Rotting carcasses litter riverless beds—tongues swollen, flyblown, unslaked. First,…
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The Weight
One drunken night, he lay on the coach road and she lay beside him. He pictured a truck descending–wobbling around corners, gaining momentum. They spoke about crushes, first kisses. He told her of an older woman who’d stolen a thing he couldn’t replace. He tried to describe the weight of lost things. She listened until…
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En Passant
It wasn’t a spectacular leaf: rather drab, too long from tree. Yet, the life it clutched in its five trembling points turned my strides into steps into stasis. I watched as it danced, sucking more from a gust than nearby leaves better suited to flying. It spiraled away to a lazuline sky while I remained…
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Dying Light
From my porch I watch thunderheads battering high noon into bruised twilight. I see you climb from under eaves, awakened by a pressure change. As the storm inhales you leap and spin, leap and spin your web — knowing your time to build is fleeting. Ryan Stone
