I am
Granite
Moss
Grain
Ocean
River
Rain
Hacked and carved
from blue grey granite
cloaked and cushioned in moss
the deep dug roots of twisted trees
reach down in the dark of my bones
ocean air bends branches down
clutching at my hair,
but still, I am not there.
Aware of the flow of rivers,
the wide slow curve of the river,
through green and rolling hills,
I am swept away to another place
to rest in fields of grain.
My spirit wanders far from home.
I fall in summer rain
My first true love was earth, dry earth and water mixed, piling dirt in mounds, trying to shape the mud. Digging, digging, digging, squatted on the earth, pouring water in to make a captured pool. I watched it soak away.
Broken finger nails
Scrabbling at resistant earth,
Burrowing with worms.
Alone I worked day after day, shaded by the Yews, until the puppy came, near as old as I, and just as keen to dig. We worked on side by side, driven by curiosity, searching for the truth or an ancient bone. The earth flew out behind us as we dug the hole.
When would water rise?
Could we find the fearsome fire?
Could we reach the source?
Stopped by tangled roots.
Water ran between my palms,
Mud sucked at my feet.
We ran off to play,
Covered head to toe in earth.
We’d dig another day.
there was no need of explanations
when all was accepted and understood
sunlight filled the clearing
a path of soft grass
lead through the wood
the rapids on the river
a source of delight,
exhilaration, excitement
the boat spinning and whirling
a reason for laughter
as we clung closer
what cared we for danger
when in evening we returned
to sit warmly wrapped
at the fireside, together
the paths have become hidden
overgrown with bramble and thorn
twisting back on themselves
the Prince in the fairytale
hacks with his sword
to find his way through
to the sleeping Princess
who waits alone, for a kiss,
only a kiss and a promise,
in stories he is never exhausted
you don’t hear tales of his scars
he always succeeds
what a miracle worker he is
what a wonder to behold
astride his white horse
shining in silver armour
despite the darkness
there is a path where the rich scent
of old fallen leaves fills the air
the banks of this path are cut deeply
amongst the roots of the ancient trees
they hold the path, embraced,
they are not there to trip us
but to keep the way open ahead
the road is old and worn
The Dreaming Path 