Kirsten Le Harivel is a poet, traveller and youth development worker, based in New Zealand and with ties to India, Scotland, England and France.
Usually I run from you
The erasure of text. The spreading of ink. The splat as you plummet. The noise of moisture. The pine dust stuck to toes. The remnants in trees. The pitter-patter. The grass, washed. The flowers still open. The drum and bass beat. The spotting on windscreen. The flash of grey silver. The orchestra of drops. The single pearl on thumbnail. The tap on jacket. The water taste. The taste of contact. The taste of tombstone. The straightness of the fall. The reflection of sky. The reflection of blue. The reflection of me. The puddle. The rain marks. The tears trapped in the depression. The sound of motion. The echo of a million ants, scurrying. The reverberation of an elastic band stretched from forefinger to thumb. The plop. The drip. The drop. The ripple. The splash. The mud. The trapped water. The dark-rimmed coffee splash circles. The untouched rocks. The dappled surface. The build up.
