Sharpening a pencil (An eccentric girl)

The dark, blunt end scrapes across the pristine white surface, leaving a thick black line. The scrawlings are fuzzy and unintelligible; the girl sighs, exasperated.
Alone in her room, she scolds the pencil.
 ¨I sharpened you only a few minutes ago! You are very rude. At this rate you will be nothing but a stub by the end of the week!¨
She slowly pushes out the antique chair she was seated upon, plodding the short distance to her small rubbish bin.
Clutching her pencil and sharpener, she obsessively grinds the pencil down to a fine point.
Miniscule curls of wood and graphite tumble into the plastic-bagged abyss. The girl could imagine the sharpenings crying out in horror as they fell into the trash. She lightly touches the point of her writing utensil to test it.
Satisfied, the girl sits down and proceeds to contemplate her next sentence.

nightfall

nightfall

the evening star

serenades the dusk,

as ribbons of rusty sky are reflected

in the silver harbour

nestled between

the dark hills

who sigh their goodnights

to the calm sea beyond.

ink-blot clouds cling low to the horizon

and sheathe the crimson-globe sun

in their wispy embraces.

hear them murmur

to the pale moon

promises of a clear night

full of stars and

frosty grass

come morning light.

street lamps glow dull orange

dotting the hills

in scattered constellations;

man’s mockery

of the vacant sun.

rustles of motion

in the undergrowth,

in the branches of the peeling eucalyptus,

where the human hubbub

cannot reach them;

the night creatures stir.

among those who wake

is the keen eyed owl

with a haunting call.

listen to his cries;

he knows who owns

the moonlit hours

that lie before us.