Sunshine on a black dress on a bus
A life transported from a southern faraway
Grafted into the grit and grime and cold
Drinking in deeply the familiar burn
That crackles through fabric to skin
A bunch of flowers on a wooden desk
Leaves poised like paddles
Ready to spin and swim
Green fins awaiting.
Buds stretched like lips for a kiss
Frozen in their opening moment
Is it now? Are we there yet?
Go, she said.
Go write a poem.
And my heart sang and rallied
And shouted its call.
A poem! A song!
A release! A stream!
A river tide of washing words
To wring out and fling wildly.
Every now and again I go and see a wonderful osteopath, Avni. Last week was one such time – my back had been a bit clicky – and amidst massaging, adjustments and gentle probing she talked to me a bit about the importance of paying attention.
Where was I when you formed the earth?
Where was I indeed.
Hovering form, almighty strength
Majestic creation and concoction
Forming of all the known
The felt, the seen.
Where was I when birds first flew
And embers sparked.
A morning new, turned over again
Mist hanging as still as breath
Waves marching in parallels
To break on ancient rocks rugged
Movement as slow as the evening
Awakening, sighing towards the shore